Dear John
by AgeOfDarkness413
Summary: Sherlock should have known this was coming - after all, it had been two and a half years - but Sherlock always held on to the very thought that John was out there, somewhere, alive and fighting for a country he shouldn't be. However, with that last letter...He knew. Although all he wanted now was John to come back to him.
1. Letters

A\N: So, new story. This one if gonna be smack-full of just about every emotion that both you and I can come up with together, but I hope I can continue this one on quite well. I have a lot of ideas, but I mean, I have no bloody clue how in the world I should put them all together. xD Though, I'm sure I'll get the hang of it as the story blends in. Hoep you like? R & R, if ya will! x3

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Dear John

_Chapter One: Letters _

~oOo~

_Third Person POV _

John:

_Your persistence never seems to sustain me. How much longer must you fight for a country that's already written out for self-destruction? Come home already – the instructions for tea you left me must have been written in some way, shape, or form in a different order than what you have previously made it as, for every time I try to make it, it doesn't as it should. I blame you. Our bed is too large for me to sleep in now so I am forced to sleep on the couch for a decent night's sleep, and it seems as if the flat had been getting smaller and smaller the longer you are out there. So, stop fighting and come back to me, alright? _

Sherlock

Dear Sherlock,

_You know I cannot do that, Sherlock. It's already been two and a half years – I'll be released in another six months. And I miss you too, which is what I presume you were trying to get out from all of your complaining. Our blankets are extremely uncomfortable while serving and the only thing that helps me sleep at night is knowing that you are at home, pacing back and forth probably complaining to thin air about being extremely bored, as you always are when you are not working on a case. But don't worry, I'll be home soon and then we can work on cases together again, okay? I love you. _

Love, John

John:

_I do not miss you, John. But on another note you are correct, I am extremely bored without you here seeing as your one of the few normal people with half of a brain – and it would help to have a medical doctor back in the field so I don't have to learn every unnecessary thing once before throwing it into my not needed folder within my brain. Talking to Skully can only last so long because, of course, skulls to not reciprocate words that I give. _

_I'll hold you to working on cases. No excuses about being too tired to work on them; I expect nothing but the fullest from you. _

_I love you. _

Sherlock

Dear Sherlock,

_I am writing this before I have received your letter, Sherlock, must you know. We're leaving for an invasion of the East Harbor Co. at sunrise, which is only a few hours out, and I probably shouldn't even be writing this to you at the moment, but I am. I just want you to know that should I not make it out alive, that I still love you, and I know you love me regardless of if you say so or not. It's been a long time out here without you, without your arms wrapped around me, without your bickering comments and biting insults, and I know that that bed feels empty without me in it. As honorable as it is for you to not sleep in our bed anymore, I do think you should start again, for your health and my happiness. _

_This invasion is purely out of the minds of any sane man. I doubt very many of us will make it. I, usually faced at the medical doctor on the field, had been stationed forth to front lines due to the lack of men we have. This is probably the last time I will speak with you. _

_So Sherlock, this is a warning and a goodbye: I love you, and stay healthy. Don't go all sociopath-mode just because I'm gone. Talk to Lestrade or something. _

_And for the sake of all things holy, just ask Ms. Hudson to make your tea. _

_Goodbye. Love you. _

Love, John

~oOo~

Sherlock can only stare at the faded paper – not blinking, not moving, and not thinking ever since he had read the practiced words through at least thrice. He had looked into it, of course – thinking it maybe a code or something if John actually happened to be in trouble – but he deduced nothing of the sorts. The letter was nothing but a 'goodbye', just as his lover had said. John could very well be dying at this very moment. He could be bleeding out on the field, or already dead, because of some un-thought out situation a par of idiots decided to come up with as a suicide mission.

Besides the red-hot fury that burned within the usually ice-cold orbs of Sherlock Holmes, the curly dark-haired figure also felt a sudden burst of anguish and loss. At first he was unable to distinguish what these feelings were – he had never really felt he needed him – but then he thought about continuing on his life without John Watson to make his tea, warm his bed, laugh at his jokes and stroke his ego with the sheer 'brilliant!' he always shouted out when Sherlock had re-incited someone's poor, sad, mundane life.

Still shocked into the brill silence that suffocated him within his empty flat, Sherlock slowly descended onto the first thing he was able to sit on – the couch. Not only were his legs unable to work at a normal pace anymore, his hands had begun to shake and his eyes felt a lot moister than they should be. Was this what it was like to feel emotion? Because if it was, Sherlock was sure he would rather lock away any emotion for the rest of his life back in the darkest depths of his mind and make sure he was unable to reach them ever again.

However, even as he tried to, Sherlock found that he couldn't simply just stop the raw feeling that coursed throughout his veins. He could feel it now – more than loss, more than horror, more than hate or love – _it was loneliness. _

Had Sherlock ever felt lonely?

Yes.

Not in a long while, though. It was one of the emotions Sherlock remembers being incapable of blocking out. Before he had met John, he had felt it all the time. How Mycroft would often try to find people he would be interested in, and how he would always blow them off because they couldn't comprehend what kind of person he was, or how his mother hated his nasty mouth and how his other siblings couldn't care less what he was like – how even Lestrade kept his distance and how Ms. Hudson was just a mere acquaintance.

Sherlock didn't only feel the loss of a lover, but he felt the loss of a friend as well.

And that was something he couldn't bear.

~oOo~

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, absentmindedly sipping at possibly the worst cup of tea he had made yet. However, it seemed as if he didn't care at that moment, because be continued to drink the searing hot liquid, not caring that his tongue was swelling and burning with each and every gulp of liquid he swallowed. The ceiling, the dark-haired once-consulting detective noticed, had been growing less and less white and more and more yellow. How could that have slipped his perception the last two months?

Holmes shook his head and decided to continue to stare blankly at the top to his makeshift home.

Yes, it had been two months. Two months since Sherlock had heard from his lover. John was most likely dead. He had not received word yet from the Force that the blonde was, in fact, gone, but that didn't mean anything because those good-for-nothings were always late anyway.

Sherlock began to think of what John used to smell like. It was more of a burning wood smell, like a burning fire and freshly cut grass – and Holmes now remembered how comfortable that smell used to make him. It was better than his nicotine patches – which John had made him stop using. He glanced at his arm. There were six of them.

Any less and Sherlock could possibly snap.

He had already deduced this. It was also quite possibly his last experiment he had had – a month and a half ago, Sherlock was become extremely restless and he later found he was not able to sit still unless he had some sort of reliance. Ms. Hudson thought it was unhealthy as well, and the woman had even told him to get out and so something after a little while, but Sherlock, as politely as he could, told her to blatantly 'piss off.'

It wasn't the best choice of words, but Sherlock wasn't feeling up to it.

Bollocks, even Anderson checked in to see how he was feeling. And that was stooping quite low to his standards.

Lestrade came over about a week or so ago, Holmes gathered, and that was perhaps the best help he had gotten from someone. Mycroft fussed over him and Anderson made him feel awkward, Ms. Hudson was too motherly, but Lestrade just sat there and felt his pain for a good three hours before walking out without saying a word. That helped him a little.

Made him feel slightly less lonely, as well.

But then again, Sherlock remembered that he wouldn't have any of those people without John. Without John, he wouldn't have stayed in this apartment and he wouldn't be anywhere near as close to Lestrade as he was – not that he was close to the other on normal terms, but they were, Sherlock liked to think, also acquaintances – and therefore Ms. Hudson wouldn't fuss over him as much as he was. He wouldn't have as much worry from Mycroft without John, and, even though he hated to admit such a thing, that gave him a slight amount of sanity in his moments of despair.

Mycroft stopped over at least twice a day and forced Sherlock to eat, which was growing more and more irritating as time went by. His brother also forced him to sleep, as well.

It was tiresome.

Once in a while, Sherlock would look towards the kitchen and see John making them dinner or making him tea or telling him that his experiments were going too far. Or sometimes he would envision John opening the refrigerator only to see his jar of eyeballs or human fingers which would cause his lover to shut the door immediately and proceed to yell at Sherlock, telling him to 'get those bloody things out of our fridge for the last time, Sherlock! I am not gonna put up with this!'

John always put up with it anyway.

Sherlock missed those bickering arguments. Not many people were able to withhold an argument against him for long – he would always shoot them down almost immediately – but John never did back down. Sherlock actually admired that about his blonde lover.

Sherlock didn't sleep that night either.

~oOo~

The next day Sherlock didn't do much either. John's blog lay untouched due to the face he was, well, not there to continue it, but Sherlock decided at about 4 A.M to begin reading the posts John accumulated ever since they had met. It was 7 P.M now, and he had read each entry twice. However Sherlock wouldn't continue it. It was John's. John was the one who needed to continue it, not him.

He had to admit, some posts made him crack a half of a smile. John always called him 'The Prat' or 'The Bloody Sociopath' in them, and very rarely, when it was a good day, by his real name – Sherlock. Which he thought was funny because John very well knew he sat down once a day at 11 P.M to check John's post over the day – unless the case somehow went over that date and John would have to post the next day. Yet, the blonde never called him those to his face.

Er, that, or he never really paid attention in those moments in time.

Anyway, as Sherlock turned to glance out the only window in their flat, where his violin sat, untouched, underneath. That was right – Sherlock also hadn't picked up the violin since his lover had sent that letter – it didn't feel right without his colleague sneaking up behind him and wrapped his arms around the lithe frame playing the instrument, telling him to come to bed and stop disturbing people.

John always ended up staying with him to listen to the music, anyway. So he didn't see the problem.

"B-Beyond the boundaries….of your cities lights…" Sherlock whispered unto the darkness, his eyes sliding shut and his body relaxing against the couch. He remembered when John used to sing that song – what was it, American made? Somewhere around that region anyway. The man couldn't exactly recall who the artist was, possibly because John had never told him, but he heard his lover humming it all the time around the apartment when he had nothing to do; or, sometimes, when he was making tea.

"Stand the heroes waiting for your cries, So many times you did not bring this on yourself…. When the moment finally comes, I'll be there to help."

_Where was he now? Where was John? Laying on some battlefield, letting the crow pick at his decaying flesh? Having other miscellaneous animals chew on his carrion? _

"On that day, when you need your brothers and sisters to care, I'll be right there…." _No, no you won't John. Where are you now? I need you. Oh god, I've never needed any sort of life-form before. This was an experiment I wished not to go through. So why are you making me, John? Why did you go, if this mission was ludacris? _

"Citizen soldiers….Holding the light for the ones that we guide from the dark of despair, Standing on guard for the ones that we've sheltered, We'll always be ready because we will always be there…." _This was bloody horrible. John, why won't you walk through that door? Why can't you crawl back to me and comfort me? Why are you gone? What did you do? Why did you deserve this?_

_Was it me? Did I deserve this, and is that why you are gone? Could I have caused this? John, WHY! _

Sherlock beat his clenched fists against the arm rests then, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath labored and intoxicated. Oh, for the love of Science, he missed his lover. He needed to get him back – something, his body, anything. Let him know that he's gone. Let him bury his lover. Let him cremate him or whatever he was going to do.

Sherlock couldn't even remember any of John's favorite songs anymore – he used to know them all and sometimes, when John was being extra nice, the dark-haired figure would hum, sing, or play the violin to John's addictions – but now he had no one that would listen to him when he did those things. Sure, they've had their video chats over the years, but it's been so long since he's actually been accompanied by his lover.

Usually, that would make him feel slightly better than he would if, say, he had been right next to the man when he died – but he didn't. Sherlock always knew that John was somewhere out there, alive, lying under the stars thinking about him – and that got him through all the time.

But now.

Now, Sherlock didn't have that comfort.

He didn't have his thoughts of John.

And now, all he wanted…all he wanted was to have his John back.


	2. Breakdowns

A\N: So, chapter two. How are you doing today? Wonderful? Yes yes, that's absolutely amazing to here. I am quite fine myself. No, but anyway, I feel like I'm over-exaggerating this story SO much, but y'know what, that's perfectly fine because I'll probably end up editing it as soon as the story is complete anyway. Well, hope you like! x3 R & R, please!

* * *

Dear John

_Chapter Two: Breakdowns_

~oOo~

_Third Person POV _

After his presumed breakdown, Sherlock went to take a shower. He sat in there for god knows how long – long past the warmth of the water, of course – curled in a ball and thinking about John's face. Missing John's face. Missing John's lips and his comments and his love and his bickering words and his smarts.

While as he was in the shower, he heard a knock on the door, but he chose to ignore it. It wasn't his brother – his brother never knocked, but it was probably Lestrade. And he didn't want to talk to Lestrade. He didn't want to talk to anyone for that matter.

In any case, the knocked had ceased and Sherlock was overall happy for that; it was beginning to hurt his ears.

So he crawled out of the shower. His skin was wrinkly and his eyes were bloodshot, but he didn't mind too much as he ditched the most likely three week old towel for his nakedness and walk out of his bathroom, soggy and looking like a kicked dog sitting out in the middle of the rain. He didn't mind, though. It was cold and that was keeping him away of his surroundings.

"S-Sherlock?" A voice suddenly awakened his brain just enough to glance forth.

Oh. Sherlock thought he had left.

Holmes sighed and trudged towards the couch and towards the sheet that sat on the couch. "What do you need, Lestrade? I thought I told you I don't want to be disturbed anymore." Sherlock countered with a sour stare towards his friend. The investigator cleared his throat and tried to contain the blush that was overwhelming his features.

Sherlock didn't really notice this, but he proceeded to get wrapped up modestly for more of his own sake than the others. "S-Sherlock, I think it's about time you moved on." The man boldly stated, leaving Sherlock to do nothing but stare blankly at him.

"Is that all?" Sherlock said instead. "It's not that simple, Lestrade. When you lose someone like John you'll understand."

"He was our friend, too, y'know."

"He was my lover. He was my only. He was _only _your _friendly _acquaintance." Sherlock shot back with a sudden glare, feeling his anger begin to boil up. What was Lestrade trying to say? Lestrade didn't know John like he did. Only his mother or father could feel something like he was feeling – even Harry, which Sherlock was sure she was still, even though he never contacted the woman.

"Sherlock, just…try to forget, alright? It'll make things easier." Lestrade sighed and made to sit next to the detective. Sherlock snorted but made room for him anyway out of courtesy mainly for John. Sherlock would hate to see John's face if he saw Lestrade treating him in some way that wasn't friendly….Or, by his terms, friendly anyway. "And….And he doesn't have to be your only, if you don't want him to be."

At that comment, Sherlock's face seared up to look at the man in something akin to shock. He replayed those words once, twice, thrice over in his brain, but each and every time he analyzed those words they meant the same thing. Was Lestrade…was Lestrade making a _move_ on him? Was Lestrade trying to say that he…that he would….

_Oh god no. _

"Lestrade, are you suggesting what I believe that you are suggesting?" Sherlock questioned with a sullen brow raised in question.

It seemed like Lestrade abruptly got extremely close. Ah, he moved.

Lestrade' s eyes were boring into the depressed man's. "Sherlock, I can help you get over him." Lestrade murmured quietly, his lips barely moving and his gaze tired and half-lidded. Sherlock tried to lean back some, but with each and every time he tried to jolt back, the man – now on top of him – followed.

"Lestrade, stop. This isn't amusing by any means –."

"No, it's not. You're unhealthy and need someone to take care of you. I can do that. John's gone, Sherlock. He's _gone." _

Sherlock let those words seep into his brain again. And again. Just like he had the past three months. "Stop it. Get off of me –."

"No, Sherlock. Let me take care of you." Lestrade murmured, right before he crushed his lips onto the once-consulting-detective. Shocked into stillness, Sherlock's eyes refused to close even with the man on top of him moving his lips on his own with closed eyes and a furrowed brow. The blue-eyed man didn't move. He couldn't, for a few moments. It was impossible. Lestrade was holding him down with his hips and Sherlock could faintly feel the beginnings of an arousal. From Lestrade obviously, not him.

It went on for a few more moments before Lestrade tried to flick his tongue against the other's un-moving lips. There, Sherlock snarled and he bucked his hips upwards furiously, causing the forceful man to break the lip-lock to gasp in undeniable pain. The dark-haired man snarled again and maneuvered his hands out of the blankets, leaving Sherlock to do nothing but shove the man on top of him _off. _

Sherlock hissed and wiped his lips clean from the feeling of someone's other than his lover's lips on his, which led him to feel vile and disgusting and cheated. Lestrade groaned from the floor, but Sherlock only took a few steps away from the couch and furthermore tumbled to the floor in horror.

"Sherlock, I –." Lestrade tried to say as he struggled to sit up, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Get out." Sherlock stated stoically. Lestrade didn't move. "_Get out, _Lestrade. _Get out, get out, GET OUT!" _ Sherlock all but whispered as he struggled to get as far away from his friend as possible. Along the way, he bumped into his violin, but he didn't do anything about it when it fell sideways, leaving Sherlock pressed against a wall.

"Alright! Okay, I'm leaving. I-I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have –."

"No, you shouldn't have. Now get out, and _stay _out." Sherlock hissed in revulsion, almost feeling as if he just betrayed his dead lover. He wouldn't look at the other form as he stumbled away, he wouldn't listen as they steps of the man's descent continued downwards, he wouldn't listen as the door opened and closed with a little too much force. No, of course he wouldn't listen.

When he was sure the man was gone, Sherlock stood up straight and ran his right hand throughout his hair. He had just….Sherlock had just been kissed by someone who wasn't his lover. He would never be able to feel his lovers lips again on him – instead, he would have to live with Lestrade's – now, he noticed, everything felt empty. Tainted. Wrong.

Sherlock spent an hour in the shower not long after rubbing his lips raw with a washcloth. He walked out bleeding and adorning cracked skin. He still felt Lestrade's lips on him, still felt how wrong that was, and Sherlock couldn't remember what John felt or tasted like anymore. It scared him. It scared him a lot more than it should have – but Sherlock kept telling himself that that was normal. He just lost someone and now he felt totally unattached to them because that detective thought it was alright to push himself on the other.

Not bothering to put on any clothes again, Sherlock decided to once again curl up in his sheet and stare outside at the dark sky. He was still shivering due to sitting in the shower _twice _without the proper temperature of the spray, but that didn't seem to matter because all he could think of was the absence of John. How he would be fretting over him, making him drink tea and telling him to put on some clothes and grab a couple of blankets along the way – how John would wrap his arms around him and tell him to stop thinking and that everything was alright.

Everything was _not _alright. Everything was _not _fine. He was just kissed by a man that was not John Watson. And he would never kiss another.

Sherlock fell asleep that night with the most deathly fear of all – losing more of John than he was willing to.

~oOo~

Days didn't pass by as well. Mycroft sent him the daily checks for his taxes and whatever else he was supposed to pay – however he never did so so Mycroft now stopped over once in a while to file out everything. Sherlock didn't even pay attention to him. He stared out the window most of the time with the telly going off in the background, and he didn't really think about anything other than the absence of John, and how emotions were the downfall of humanity.

Emotions destroyed him. However Sherlock also found that he, if he had to do it again, wouldn't have it any other way. He would still love John. That, he knew he wouldn't change. Although the mere thought of emotions began to scare him. Why didn't he manage himself well, like John would always when he got depressed? Was it because he was so new to the game? A game that he didn't want to play?

Was it even his choice?

Sherlock didn't feel like that. It wasn't his choice. It was just how it was. John was gone. Really, truly, gone. Sherlock could go back to his life before he met John as well, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to forget John. Ever. He would rather die first.

Not that he hadn't thought about it. John's three guns still rested in the most obvious parts of the house – under his bed, under the chair cushion and by the door on one of the hangers. Sherlock never touched them. But he wished to touch them. Every day. Stroke them, unlock them, take the safety off, and align the trigger to his forehead and pulled that trigger. It was that easy.

But what would John think? Would John be disappointed? All he wanted to do now was to meet John again, and that was his scapegoat to everything.

Sherlock was sure Mycroft had eyes for him, as well. Meaning it wouldn't be simple to take his time and take his life. Which, also, kind of caged him in more ways than he thought possible. Now, he didn't feel anything but alone and scared. Those two emotions which John would almost always cure.

So what in the world was he going to do?

~oOo~

"Dear, you really need to start getting out again. Oh, that's right! I heard from Lestrade –…."

"_Don't you ever say his name around me again, Ms. Hudson." _Sherlock growled as he stared absentmindedly at the smiley face on the wall, almost thinking that the damned piece of nothing was laughing at him. It was annoying. He should take that down. Briefly, his gaze shifted over to the elderly woman who had jumped slightly at his tone of words. Enhanced breathing. Sweaty palms. Throat constriction. Swallowing. She was nervous and scared.

To be honest, Sherlock didn't care just then.

"D-Did he do something wrong, Sherlock dear? It could possibly just be –."

"Him, Ms. Hudson. Him in general. He did things he shouldn't have. Please do stop this nonsense and leave me alone, then. I do not need your pity."

~oOo~

"Brother dearest, I know how much you must still be hurting –."

"No, you don't, brother."

"Well, it seems to me –."

" – That I'm on the verge of death? Purely amazing deduction, brother. Anyone would notice how I've been looking over the past five months. As I had already though, you wouldn't let me die easily, meaning I have no choice how to continue living. However, I am content with living like this. It's perfectly fine to die in agony and sleep deprivation. At least I would get to see John once more."

"Sherlock that is not a thought you can entertain – do you know how many people you will leave behind that still care about you? I know Lestrade may have –."

" – _Ruined the bittersweet taste of my only lover's lips on mine? To where I scraped his utterly preposterous ideas and taste down my bathroom drain? Oh, I noticed he cares, but the thing is, I don't." _

"Well, I do, Brother. You are still my bloodline and despite everything, the measures I go through are because I love you. Mother and Father would not support these methods of my protection, but it helps _me _sleep at night knowing the only family member I care about is _still alive. _So do think before you act, Sherlock."

When Mycroft left that made him feel even more alone than he was willing to admit.

~oOo~

"Look, Freak, I don't know what you did to Lestrade, but you need to suck it up and apologize before you end up killing him. He's a wreck."

"I wish I had killed him. Now Donovan, please get your dirty nose out of my business before you dare follow Mycroft back to my home."

"Just fix it."

"I can't fix that dirty bloody bastard kissing me and leaving me with the horrid feeling of _his _lips on mine instead of _John's_. That's his fault, not mine. Leave, Donovan."

Donovan had left with the most shocked look on her face – a more shocking look than Sherlock had ever seen her."

~oOo~

"Get out, Anderson."

"Now, I don't know what you said to Donovan and Lestrade to make them –."

"Lestrade kissed me and ruined the mere feeling of my only lovers dead lips being the last on mine. It's his fault. Now, get out."

Anderson was the same. Except a little more shocked, Sherlock had to admit.

~oOo~

No one talked to him after that.

~oOo~

Time continued on and soon it had become six months. Sherlock had lost about thirty pounds of his small frame soon enough he would be considered to anorexic to live properly. He didn't mind. His violin had been crushed due to the fact that his anger wasn't as easy to manage as it had used to be. To be honest he didn't miss it as much as he missed John's gaze on his when he played that. His soft, humming tune that led him to almost always fall in love with the soldier even more than he already was.

The Woman had called, but Sherlock refused to pick up. He remembered John telling him – well, him deducing that John was jealous of the other, and he didn't want to do anything that John wouldn't like. Apart from the physical hurt, that is. That was just him. Only bringing John back would stop that.

Perhaps he had done something to fate to make it turn around and bite him in the ass. Was he getting too many experiments correct or something? Because he had stopped that, and the world still seemed to hate him. He was finally out of the papers, thank god, due to the fact he wasn't doing anything good for society or whatnot, leaving him glad for that fact.

People on John's blog had been haywire since then. After they realized John was dead, they haven't stopped commenting. Sherlock had looked last week, just slightly curious, and they were just as beat up about his death as he imagined Harry was. Some were worried for Sherlock. As touching as it was, Sherlock didn't feel any different.

He still felt the same.

Empty.

Alone.

Missing.

A puzzle.

Broken.

He wasn't sure what was best yet.

All Sherlock knew was that he wanted his life to end quickly. Very quickly.

~oOo~

The first time he had tried to end his life obviously was a colossal failure.

He had merely reached for John's gun and three people were already in the flat holding him back. He was tied to the reclining chair for a day after that – force fed and given medicine to help his immune system fight off any common colds that would most likely kill him now. Those three men that Sherlock could honestly say bloody pissed him off had stayed with him.

They were silent and wouldn't stop watching him. Sherlock always avoided his gaze when he had caught their eye. They looked way too pitying. He had told one of the men that before they left, to stop 'pitying' him, but they had simply looked at him and jumped out of the window, probably to watch him once more. Maybe they had lost someone as well. Sherlock didn't know. He wasn't as sharp as he used to be.

The second time he was sharpening a butter knife. Mycroft had walked in silently and took it from him. He ordered Ms. Hudson to look after him after that.

The third time Sherlock tried to jump off his building. Just when he thought he was about to fall one of those same guys pulled him back and dragged him inside. He was furious and screamed all the way back into his flat.

He stopped after that.

Still, though, he could feel their eyes one him, always.

Even when he was showering. But it wasn't that creepy stare – it was that pitying stare again. He hated it.

Sherlock had ordered Mycroft to get someone else to look after him. For once, Mycroft did as he was told. However the pity didn't leave with them. Damned emotions. John would have already beaten the living words out of him if he had seen the other, but since he can't Sherlock couldn't help but damn emotions to the darkest pits of hell. Even if they were the best thing that ever happened in his life.

Bloody hell, did he miss John. So, on whim, he had begun to write letters again. Little, tiny, short letters on ripped pieces of paper. Whenever he wrote them, his grip continued to get considerably looser, until he couldn't hold a pencil anymore. He had made a total of six letters over three weeks.

_Dear John, _

_I miss you. Come back to me. _

_Dear John, _

_when will I see you again? _

_Dear John, _

_This helps me, I think. Writing to you. _

_Dear John,_

_I wish I could send these to someone._

_Dear John, _

_I wish I could send these to you. _

_Dear John, _

_I want to die. _

Sherlock knew he couldn't stop writing them once he started.

Now, he made Mycroft write them. Only him, though.

He missed John.


	3. Reunion

A\N: So, angst and happiness in this chapter. To be honest I don't remember writing a lick of this as I was writing this, I was so blank while typing that I now just realized that my fingers hurt like a mofo. Listening to Someday by Nickelback (So many childhood memories) and I think that's one of the reasons I zoned out. Whateves, right? xD Hope you like, and R & R please! X3

* * *

Dear John

_Chapter Three: Reunion_

~oOo~

_Third Person POV _

It was October fourteenth, approximately seven months after John had died, when Ms. Hudson ran up the stairs in a fury of something Sherlock could only describe as shock.

Sherlock thought the woman tripped at least once or twice on her way up. Anyway, Sherlock basically ignored her and instead, he flipped through some miscellaneous channels on the telly because he knew John used to always complain about him not watching any of his favorite shows with him – which Sherlock was sure he now watched each of them at least four times.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, you have to look at this, Dear!" The elder woman shouted as she practically bulldozered her was over to the couch. Sherlock didn't even glance at her, yet he continued to spoon some of the very last bits of ice cream at the bottom of the carton and stared at the screen, almost in a trance.

"What is it, Ms. Hudson? Didn't I tell you I don't wish to visit the cinema?" Sherlock sighed and lolled his head back, placing his vanilla ice cream to the side. The dark-haired figure then moved the blanket that was wrapped around him so he could pick at his oldest nicotine patch, because it was more or less peeling away and Sherlock was gradually getting very annoyed with it.

"Oh no, of course not Dear! I got your message perfectly clear the sixth time! Anyway, I think you're really going to want to read this." The elder woman shuffled over to his free hand and practically stuffed the piece of paper into his palm. Sherlock didn't react.

"Ms. Hudson, I honestly doubt –."

"Sherlock, this is something you are really going to wish to read. You will regret it the rest of your life if you do not." Ms. Hudson said cryptically, which caused Sherlock to give her a sidelong glance, almost unbelieving.

"Then you read it to me." Sherlock said as he locked his gaze back onto the telly.

A small hum to the side of him caused Sherlock to drag his tired, jagged gaze back to the woman. "You won't want me to."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and furthermore glanced down at his palm in wonder, not knowing what was wrapped within the confines of the envelope. However, feeling as if his nostalgic mind needed at least something to feed off of, Sherlock ended up sighing and taking his right hand from under the cloth to grasp the paper. "What is it?" He questioned as he narrowed his blurry eyes at the small words that were stamped within the blankness of the form that came from wood.

Ms. Hudson stayed silent as Sherlock decided against reading the return address on the envelope, instead deciding to rip the letter open with some of the strength he tucked deep inside of him just in case he actually needed it. As the first layer of paper descended off of what Sherlock really needed, the former consulting detective decided to flick open the inferior sheet that was folded twice in an almost classically old format.

That was exactly when Sherlock laid eyes on something he was subconsciously hoping for – a whole, now, seven months.

_Sherlock, I am alive. _

Nothing more, nothing less.

It was written horribly and there were blood stains where it seemed like John's wrist had been writing, but it was there nonetheless. Sherlock, for the first time in three months, began to shake again, his eye wide and shocked. And all of a sudden, everything that made Sherlock, well, Sherlock, bounced back into his body, his heart, his soul, and that made him stand instantly and snap for the envelope. At this he glanced at the return address this time and, to his utmost surprise, it had come from a hospital about an hour's drive from his apartment.

St. Landis. A war hospital. Or, at least, that's what Sherlock always called them. He more or less thought that was what General's and Commandants did when they got tired of people who didn't listen to them – always stuck them in there saying that their 'injuries' were pure accidental and caused from war – which was what John told him, obviously. And when John told him about those places, Sherlock made sure to note that in the back of his mind right before John had left two years ago to make sure that John didn't end up in a place like that.

And now it seemed like Sherlock had a rescue mission in the midst.

_Take that, Lestrade. _

~oOo~

Mycroft had given him a car. He, too, had read the letter once Sherlock had called him in on 'urgent business' in that demanding tone he hadn't used since John had been presumed dead, and had immediately called one of his men to drive Sherlock to the hospital. If it hadn't been so short notice, the dark-haired man was sure the other would have called a helicopter or something to get out to him.

Mycroft didn't follow him, though, when he had gotten into the car with whoever it was driving in the front to get to St. Landis. Despite everything, Mycroft really was an amazing older brother. Though he would never admit that aloud. Maybe. Maybe, he would now have to tell Mycroft once this was all over and John was safely back in his arms. This time, though, Mycroft would have to suffice with a 'Thank you,' in a text message.

The drive had been horrible. For the whole hour, Sherlock was forced to listen to his, albeit, favorite music, he preferred the silence where as he could once more think again. Trees and highway passed by at an almost alarming pace, but if it got him there faster the blue-eyes man would most definitely not complain. The sun had moved approximately three degrees as well and about 2.5 million leaves had fallen within the first twenty five minutes, which made Sherlock realize just how easily things die off every year.

But John was not dead.

He wasn't dead.

He was alive.

He was safe.

He was able to write him.

After seven months.

After seven months? What had happened? Was John unable to write or something? Were people watching him? Was it even right to come?

He would come anyway. For John, he would go anywhere.

The rest of the way he didn't think about anything other than John's face. He thought about John' smile, John's laugh, John's frown and smirk and grin and confused face – all those different emotions that played off whenever he was feeling something different or weird. How John would yell at him and tell him to stop doing what he was doing because he was either going to blow up 221B Baker Street altogether or end up killing himself. How John would smile and lean up on his tippy-toes to peck him on the lips, telling him he wouldn't want to be with anyone other than Sherlock.

He never understood why John thought like that, because he certainly wasn't relationship material, but god did he wanted to hear that again. He wanted to feel John again. John was his light, and he needed that light to balance out his darkness. He needed John's hair to make him feel like he wasn't such a dark being with his own dark curls. He needed John's warm eyes to balance out his own confused, ice cold ones, and he needed John's small, compact, muscled body to even out his own lanky, imperfect one.

He needed John more than he needed air. Air may keep him alive, but John…oh god, John did _everything_ for him.

There was something in John that he couldn't understand, even if he felt the same way. Trust. How did John trust him? Sherlock led him to his death almost every day of his life, but by god if John didn't always follow faithfully and without question. Why did he do that? Sherlock was most definitely not sure. John was truly a bloody enigma.

Maybe there would be something wrong with John when Sherlock saw him next. Maybe he would be missing a leg, a tongue, an arm or a finger, but that wouldn't make John any less perfect than he already was. Sherlock didn't mind, he knew he didn't. He was still John. Talking or not talking. Leg or no leg. Arm or no arm. Finger or no finger.

He was still John, and he was alive.

~oOo~

Sherlock didn't bother with the elevator as he rushed up the stairs towards the room that would forever be imprinted within the recesses of his mind. _366. The room number was 366. John was in there. Oh god, John was in there. _

His feet pumped harder than he ever thought was possible. People gave him strange looks at he passed but he didn't mind, and others, mostly doctors, blatantly ignored him. They probably saw this often. Anyway, Sherlock weaved in and out of the people, his curls bouncing dutifully on his head as he scanned the are around him. The stairs faded in his peripheral vision quickly. _366. Where the bloody hell was 366?_

_327….332….341…350. _

_355…_

_360…_

_362…_

_366. _

The door was open. Sherlock stood outside it for a second, panting and trying to regain his breath. Was John inside of there? Was he awake – or asleep? Was John flat-lining at this very moment, or was he wearing that goofy grin that he always was when he knew he was right?

Sherlock sighed and took a step forward into the room. He felt the coldness almost immediately – 62.2 degrees, like it was always in hospitals so people didn't get even more sick by wallowing in their own sweat. And then his eyes locked on it.

John.

He was alive. Albeit, he looked horrible, but Sherlock couldn't even begin to care at that moment because for god sake, he was _alive. _He was alive.

John was sleeping as well, so Sherlock did the best he could to keep his steps silent and the chair quiet as he moved to sit next to his lover that he thought was dead. Even breaths cascaded in and out of the man, his body still scrunched up in pain. All his body parts still seemed to be intact, though, which was a good thing. However, he also saw that John was stuck inside a machine he had never really seen before – it was bending his leg back and forth and Sherlock was awed by the small piece of machinery.

There was a tag. CPM, it said. Sherlock wasn't sure what it stood for, but if he knew the injury that John had he was sure he would be able to tell what it was. There also was what Sherlock knew was an ice machine – a cooler that was attached to a hose which was attached to an ice pack that was wrapped around John's knee. Sherlock was sure there was a large incision under the ice pack due to the necessity of the machine and the coldness.

John had a large cut also – down his left eye, ending right under the length of his nose. It curved out a little bit, so, knife. Judging from the side, the man was probably behind him and John moved out of the way just in time, or else he would have been impaled by the sharp object.

A brace on his left wrist, as well, was what Sherlock noticed next. Most likely just a sprain from falling with difficulty.

Miscellaneous cuts also roamed around John's body, most would scar but some would not. Sherlock didn't mind. John was perfect just being imperfect.

Ah. And then Sherlock noticed it.

There were also two bullet wrappings. One was near the scarred tissue of the old wound, and the other was on Watson's thigh. Both properly bandaged, of course. Sherlock shivered, knowing that John was more or less stricken about each and every wound he had gotten. However, something was off. Something was….John's stomach was altogether bandaged, there was nothing really seen by Sherlock, so did that mean more wounds?

Wouldn't the wounds have already healed?

It had been….What was it? Six, seven, eight months since John had been in action? Everything would have most likely been a scar by then, so that meant that John had gotten these wounds from somewhere else. If he had, why hadn't John spoken to him first?

There were so many questions swirling in his head, he didn't notice the fluttering of his lovers eyes.

Did someone capture John and torture him? That explained the lacerations. Was John unable to contact him if held captive? If so, who was holding him? Sherlock was sure John didn't have many enemies at all. Sherlock did, though. Was someone trying to get to him? Did he not notice the signs? Did he make John suffer? Should he have been looking even more for his lover? Did he give up too soon?

Oh god, he gave up too soon. What if John didn't think he loved him? What if John lost all hope in him….Oh god, what if John didn't love him anymore? What would Sherlock do? He didn't know, he didn't bloody know if he could live knowing that.

"Sherlock."

The small voice, the unmistakable small voice that Sherlock knew as John's, drifted through the air and paused any other question Sherlock's quick mind could ponder over the next few seconds. He blinked, lids sliding uncomfortably over his eyes, as he was now met with the warmth that forever balanced him out.

Sherlock couldn't speak. For once, his mouth was screwed shut, too dry to part at this very moment.

Before he was able to stop them, the dark-haired crash course felt the first tear slide down his cheeks. John's face, although screwed up with pain, softened. The blonde slipped a small, sad smile upon his features, and Sherlock could do nothing but bite his lips in agony. He could taste the copper in his mouth, but Sherlock continued to gnaw on the flesh as if it was his lifeboat.

"Sherlock, I missed you." John whispered, his voice rasped. Had he been properly speaking? Had he been properly cared for? "I love you."

Sherlock bowed his head as he silently sopped, feeling alone and helpless for the millionth time in his months of agony. His now hollowed cheeks burned with both shame and fear. He hoped this wasn't a dream, god, he hoped John was really sitting in front of him, speaking to him like the he always would when trying to comfort Sherlock.

"Oh, John…." Sherlock could only murmur as their gazes locked again. The tall man sniffled and tried to contain his feelings within the next few moments. "I love you, John. I missed you too. Oh god, I thought you were dead, I thought –."

"Shhh, Sherlock. I know, I'm sorry, and I will explain everything when you are feeling better. However, you look bloody horrible. You need to eat something, to drink something." John said, as if he already knew that Sherlock was trying to starve himself to death. Sherlock shook his head.

"No. No, I don't want to get up. I don't want to leave you."

John sighed, but he complied. Sherlock didn't know if John just pitied him or wished for his comfort as well. Could be both. Though, since his mind hurt too much for deducing so quickly after he promised to shut his mind down from doing such, he decided that those questions could wait for a while. He just wanted to talk with John right now. Hear his voice.

Sherlock lifted his hand and wrapped it securely around his lover's uninjured hand, offering his touch to calm the two of them down. Oh, did it feel wonderful. John's warm skin finally mingling with his again, like it always would during the night or walking around town, a touch that Sherlock had missed for god knows how long.

Just then, Sherlock shivered. He could still feel Lestrade on him. He trembled. He thought that….He thought that he would never be able to feel John again. And now he was here. Some things were just too overwhelming at the moment, especially for a man who didn't know how to sort or conceal his feelings.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?" The injured man asked as he gripped his lovers hand slightly tighter, also offering his comfort. Sherlock knew he felt him trembling.

"…I…I just….I thought that I would never be able to feel you again. You were gone, John, and I was such a bloody wreck that I couldn't even function anymore. I tried to die – oh, I tried to die so many times, and Mycroft's men always stopped me, but I couldn't help feeling alone. Everyone visited me at least once. Mycroft did our bills and paid for our flat, he made me eat, he watched over me like we were little again, and Lestrade….Oh god, Lestrade…."

"Quiet, Sherlock. It doesn't matter right now. You can tell me some other –."

"N-No!" Sherlock cut off his lover through his silent tears. "I thought that I would never be able to feel you again, and Lestrade, he….He pushed himself on me! He pinned me to the couch and he kissed me, and I couldn't feel you anymore! I was so alone! He offered his – his services, to forget about you, and I was so bloody furious…."

John's face turned stone cold as Sherlock spoke. Desperately, Sherlock continued. "John. John, are you mad at me? I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to – I didn't mean to lose your touch, and –."

"No, Sherlock. I'm not mad at you. I could never – no, well, I could, but not for this. Never for this. I'm the one that should be sorry." John murmured, so quiet that Sherlock almost couldn't hear. He shook this off as John apologizing about his absence, but somewhere deep inside of his stomach Sherlock was sure there was a double meaning.

"No, never, John. Just….God, I missed you."

"I missed you too, Sherlock. But I'm here, any you're here." John squeezed his hand again and offered a smile. "Welcome home."

"Home…." Sherlock muttered in response. It had been a while since that word fell from his lips with meaning.

The dark-haired man smiled.

Yes. Yes, he was indeed home.


	4. A Million Words

As you can see, I am most likely not a frequent uploader. I tend to upload whenever I have time to, not a single week or two per chapter. So, for that, I'm freaking sorry. D: But anyway, one more day of school and then I'm out, bitches! Although, I still have to have my girlfriend tutor me over the break in Spanish, since I am failing that class. O-o' Well, not everyone can be perfect. xD

Anyway, this is kind of an information chapter, but not really an information chapter. Mycroft and John bonding moment it is, more or less.

And I have to say, I do actually like Mycroft. In a sick, twisted way, he does consider himself caring, as do I. So in this fic I am making him a teddy bear instead of an asshole. So I hope you like the image I painted for him, and if not, I'm sorry. D:

I hope you like again! R & R, please!

* * *

Dear John

_Chapter Four: A Million Words _

~oOo~

Third Person POV

* * *

Sherlock woke up about six hours later next to his lover on the bed. His head, once suspended on the less-than-comfortable sheets, lifted slightly, his eyes kind of blurry from just waking up. _Oh dear, _Sherlock thought as he blinked a couple of times. _Was he like this the whole time? _Sherlock shook that thought out of his head right as he had said it and knew that it was a small price he had to pay for staying with John. Sherlock was perfectly content with having a sore neck if it meant waking up next to John.

Sherlock still couldn't believe everything was real. Was it just a dirty, nasty dream that he would eventually wake from and then make him realize that yes, John is still presumed dead and he had never found him? He had never been unable to distinguish a dream from reality, but now he knew how it felt. And this emotion…it was a both love\hate feeling. He loved loving John and being loved by John, but he hated feeling helpless and fragile – unlike he had when he was alone.

Oh bloody mother of all things sane, he sounded like he regretted falling in love with John.

And that was impossible. Sherlock would never do that. Not with John by his side, anyway. John was his anchor to the world. He made life realistic.

Sherlock sat up in his chair and yawned. It was dark around the room and the only sounds the tall man could hear were the machines and a few nurses walking about outside. John was still blissfully asleep; however, he could still see the slightly pained features that overwhelmed his aging face. The blonde appeared older now; hurt. Scarred. Sherlock briefly wondered what had happened to him, but as soon as he thought of that kind of thing he had whisked it out of his mind.

Like John, he would wait until his lover was good and ready to tell him.

Inattentively, the curly haired man reached over and pressed the tips of his fingers against the IV in John's right wrist. The finger monitor was still safely clipped onto the thirty-eight year old man's index finger, as well as another piercing that was feeding him more blood than the IV. The once tanned skin was a light ivory at best now, and Sherlock could tell that John had lost a healthy amount of weight and was now fighting to keep his firm, muscled chest. Blonde hair was shaggy and now laying all over John's face – Sherlock didn't think it looked bad, but the way it was kept made John look even more fragile and hurt.

Sherlock really did wonder what his lover had gone through. What may it have been that John was now in the hospital and couldn't contact him for seven months?

It was no use thinking about it, really. He wouldn't be able to deduce it even if he tried.

A pair of icy blue eyes turned slightly to stare down affectionately at his lover. Sherlock let his thumb rub around the IV for a moment, and eventually he let it slide down to the others cold palm. It seemed that John had a few scabs still healing – quite possibly from being bound or forced to do manual labor of some kind. The taller didn't want to think about it. Other than the obvious things, Sherlock knew that John could quite possibly be damaged all over again. After all, the first time he was in the army – only as a Doctor, mind you – John was still mortally scarred.

What will he be like for a second time now – this time as a soldier and possibly being tortured? Will John ever be the same?

Did Sherlock really care if he was the same or not?

Not necessarily. Not that he would like it, oh no, that meant that John had seen some brutal insistencies, but he was also finally back where he belonged – or, almost. At 221B Baker Street with his lover and 'Housekeeper', Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock nodded quickly to himself. Yes, right where he belonged.

The detective was pulled out of his thoughts as a sharp moan, leaving him to only do the following: snap out of it and glance down at his lover, who seemed to be on the verge of waking. Instead of dropping the hand now firmly held in his, Sherlock gripped tighter, afraid to let him go in fear of the dream going away. John moaned again, this time a little more solid and there. At the flutter of eyelids, Sherlock sat a little straighter, still peering down at his soul mate's waking form.

"S-Sherlock…?" A crusty-toned voice spoke into the silence, and Sherlock sent a re-assuring squeeze to let the injured man know he was there. He didn't speak though – he didn't dare to – for it was all still so new and the dark-haired figure wasn't sure how to handle it.

The hand he was holding on to squeezed back as best as it could. Sherlock couldn't stop the small smile that adorned his features. _John was real, _he told himself. John was certainly real.

"Did you even get a-any sleep, Sherlock?" John questioned the silence again, moaning once as his eyes tried to open again. However, Sherlock figured it was too bright because seconds later he was closing them again. Sherlock almost snorted. Ah, that was so like his blogger.

"I did." Sherlock replied honestly.

"And I take it you slept here?"

"Where else?"

"Sherlock, you need some decent sleep."

"I had a perfectly fine sleep right here, thank you."

"I missed you too, Sherlock."

John smiled brightly up at the dark-haired man, and Sherlock only shook his head. It was so like John to answer a statement like that. It was because John really always knew. One way or another, John was always able to figure out his problems. Only John. "How do you feel?" Sherlock asked instead, cocking his head to the side to avoid an embarrassing confession once more. The blonde chuckled and tilted his head.

"Like I got hit over by a truck, if you cannot deduce. I'm fine, though. Will be. What about you?" John sat up a little bit and yawned, using what little strength he had to support his body weight. He kept a firm grip on Sherlock's hand as he pushed himself the best he could. "You don't…no offense, Sherlock, but you don't honestly look too well."

"Brilliant deduction, John. I did get a letter from you seven months ago stating that you were most likely dead. It wasn't the best news I had ever gotten."

John hummed, concerned as he furrowed a light blonde eyebrow down towards his sky eyes. Sherlock watched this action with a bit of amusement. "Sorry." John murmured quietly. "It's just –."

"Shhh, John." Sherlock placed the index finger of his free hand onto the others chapped, puffy lips. "Tell me when you're ready. For now, let's get you better. We'll worry about the other stuff later." John let out a sigh of contempt or relief, Sherlock couldn't really tell, and squeezed his hand once more. Sherlock's own lips curled into a small smile. Yes, they would worry about it later.

"I do see that you are in top shape, Doctor Watson."

Both lovers groaned in a more teasing manner as they heard the voice from the door. Said voice grunted as an affirmative and Sherlock couldn't help but relish in a small smile as he heard a small ounce of relief in his elder brother's tone. It seemed all the Holmes's had a soft spot for his Watson. Mycroft Holmes made his way into the room swiftly, not missing a beat before getting to Sherlock's side. "I do hope this does not become a routine thing, Dr. Watson."

"I hope so as well." John chuckled well naturedly. Mycroft merely nodded and didn't reply, which left John to spark up again. "Sherlock, could you please excuse us for a moment?" John's lover asked Sherlock. For a moment, the dark-haired figure blinked at the blonde, wondering what he was saying. After his quick analysis, though, he realized that he should probably abide to his lover's wishes. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, ah – I'll just go get some coffee or tea or…something." Sherlock murmured more to himself, wondering what they were going to speak of. He promised he wouldn't listen in, though, and instead he settled for walking out of the room.

He was sure him and John would talk later.

~oOo~

_With John & Mycroft_

"I'm assuming you wish to hear the details of Sherlock's health, John." Mycroft spoke as soon as he heard the click of the door sliding shut.

"I'll never get used to you Holmes's." John said boldly, not without a small smile. Within a second, though, it was wiped off, leaving a serious look to mask his undeniable fear. "He's skinny, Mycroft. He already looks bruised from how I've been gripping him, which wasn't hard at all, and I noticed that there are some faint scars along his fingers and arms. What has he done?" John asked, knowing that his deduction skills were more or less thanks to his lover's family.

Mycroft sighed and took Sherlock's empty, but still warm, sleep. His umbrella rested against his leg. "You are correct with what you have seen, I'm afraid. I do imagine that you are lucky to not have seen Sherlock in those seven months."

"Tell me everything."

"John, I do not think that is a –."

"– Good idea? No, definitely not. But it is necessary information, and I deserve to know."

Mycroft swallowed forcefully and stared at the man that had literally destroyed his brother's heart, and nearly his in turn. _Caring is not an advantage, _Mycroft reminded himself as he stared into those stern eyes that Sherlock had grown to adore. _But it certainly is powerful. _"And you will speak to Sherlock about this?"

"Of course."

_Stubborn fool. _"And I do believe this is a time I do not have a say in the matter?"

"I still have a gun under my pillow and I'm sure you have no snipers within the general radius at this moment." John quickly replied. Mycroft felt his lips twitch. John did as well. Together, they enjoyed a small bout of silence, the two of them managing to have what most people would call a 'moment.' Their smiles weren't big, instead almost testing in a way, and Mycroft immediately knew why exactly his brother had chosen John of all people. If Sherlock had not taken him, perhaps Mycroft would have.

"I see. Well, after you had sent your last letter, things had gotten progressively worse. The first six or so months he just wasn't eating properly, taking care of himself or doing any taxes, not bothering with something as mundane as sleep, work, or even living in general. The only thing he appeared to be doing was sitting in your chair and staring off into space. He had lost a total of thirty-seven pounds within that time and had relapsed on both his drug and cigarette addiction – however, I put a stop to the drugs right away."

John nodded and processed this information inside of his own mind. Not that he was at all excited to hear this news, he thought that something along those lines would have happened. The drugs came as somewhat of a surprise to him, but as soon as he really, truly thought about it, he knew that it was quite the possibility that Sherlock would run to something as blank as drugs. John didn't mind the cigarette's at all, though. It was a rough time and, as much as he disliked to say it, cigarette's helped the best of all.

Mycroft paused for a moment in his line of speech and tilted his head upwards to the clean, blank ceiling. John watched this moment. He calculated. "The last month, Mycroft?" John asked tensely. His jaw clenched.

"…Terrible." Mycroft stated after a moment. "Just terrible."

~oOo~

_With Sherlock & Coffee_

Sherlock paced back and forth in the cafeteria. He was all around tense; both Mycroft and his lover were up there talking about _something, _and he could never be truly sure what it was about. Of course he had his suspicions and ideas, but none of them were worth mentioning. What he wanted to do was march up there and tell Mycroft to get the bloody hell out so he could spend time with his once dead lover, but the rational side of him told him he wasn't the only one that had missed John.

To mention it, he was quite possibly one of the only ones who knew John was still alive. This stopped Sherlock in mid-pace. That's right. Other people were worrying about Sherlock, weren't they? Mrs. Hudson? She obviously knew, but she couldn't leave their flat uninhabited. Lestrade didn't, and even though he honestly never wanted to speak to the man again, he was still John's friend. Donovan and Anderson would probably like to know, but Sherlock didn't care about them enough.

Mary and Sarah would most likely like to know.

Yet there lie the problem.

Sherlock had been so quick to leave that he had forgotten his phone on the table. Actually, did the bloody thing still even work? It wasn't as if he was the one paying for it. Maybe Mycroft did, maybe he didn't. That was always the question with his family.

Sherlock shook his head and let his dark curls bounce as he threw himself into a small plastic chair at an empty table in the corner of the cafeteria. People around him were ignoring him – this was quite possibly completely and utterly normal behavior at this place, wasn't it – and continuing on with their conversations without a care.

He didn't mind. He was too agitated to care.

What he wanted to do was see John again. Other people still didn't hold a candle to his thought at the moment, because all he wanted to do was see, was hold, was think about John. The fact that he was back, more or less.

"Message for Sherlock Holmes?" A voice peaked from around the tall figure.

Sherlock inclined his head just enough to see a short, buff man tilting his head down and staring into those icy blue orbs he owned. The man didn't flinch. Neither did Sherlock. For a quick bit, they were silent, until Sherlock tilted his head, waiting. What was it?

"Yes?" Sherlock answered with a question. The man nodded silently and pulled something out from is back. Something that looked like a package. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

What was this?

When he looked up to question where the man had gotten this, he had realized the bloke was gone. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course. Just like them to drop off the package and run away like cowards. Who were they? Was this package good or bad? Perhaps it held a bomb? Or it could be another letter about someone who wanted to play games. Ah, ones like those happened to come quite frequently lately.

As Sherlock pressed his fingernail against the top of the large envelope and cut it open, he immediately knew what it was. He didn't have to look at it as he pulled it out. Ah, his phone. Mycroft, then. The man obviously worked for Mycroft. There was a piece of paper as well.

_Do call John's friends. They will wish to know as well. Congrats, Sherlock. ~ Mycroft _

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical brother behavior.

He sighed. May as well get this over with.

~oOo~

_With John & Mycroft _

"Define terrible."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and absently strummed his fingers against the butt of his umbrella. "Stopped suicide attempts. Three times in total, before he gave up, knowing that I had people stationed on him for this type of thing. First time he had reached for your gun, and my men had to restrain him. Second – he sharpened a butter knife. I walked in and took it from him. Third – well, he tried to jump off a building."

John took this information in blindly. He couldn't really register what was being said until he replayed it over three or four times over, and over, and over, hoping he would get a different result each and every time. Though that was not the case. He had heard what he had heard. "Jump…off a building?" John gulped softly.

Mycroft nodded. "As he had the time he went missing himself. This time, though, he didn't want to plan his landing."

John swallowed the lump inside his throat and fisted the sheets. Sherlock had tried to kill himself. Thrice. What would he have done if Mycroft hadn't stopped him? Would it have become a horrible case of Romeo and Juliet if he had not interfered? Would he be able to live without Sherlock for that much longer?

The answer was no. He wouldn't have been able to. Once was enough for him.

"T-Thank you." John squeaked. "For saving him, I mean." He stated, still not really comprehending what he was saying.

_Sherlock really had tried to kill himself. Silently, alone. _

"He is my brother, John, if you seem to have forgotten. I shall not –."

"N-No." John interrupted, still quiet. "If it would have been brotherly, you probably would have let him die for his own sake. You wouldn't want him to suffer like he was suffering. Some way, somehow….You had thought I was still alive, hadn't you?" John asked as he let his blank stare peer through the man. Almost startled, Mycroft answered. _That stare. So blank. So hollow. _

"I had my suspicions. Although I had no idea where, if alive, you were." Mycroft admonished finally. "If I would have told Sherlock, he wouldn't have rested until he found you. Would have driven himself to the ground to find you."

"So you did instead."

"Yes, but it didn't seem to get me anywhere."

"Thank you."

"For not –."

"For caring for Sherlock like that. Keeping him alive. Thank you."

Mycroft merely nodded and sat straight once more, no longer leaning back as if he were worn. John watched this action attentively, and it appeared to him that Sherlock's brother was trying to conceal his emotions. Oh, no. John wouldn't let Mycroft do that yet. He still needed more answers. What had Sherlock been doing all this time? He needed more details.

And Mycroft was the only one who could give that to him.


	5. Revelations

Woo, this chapter was actually extremely easy to pull together. xD And I have no idea why, because usually feels get me all weird and I can't write half of what I want to write. xD Anyway, I have to admit I do love how I ended this chapter – and yes, if you are wondering, I will make a chapter where John _does _watch the 'video.'

Hope you like! R & R, please!

* * *

Dear John

_Chapter Five: Revelations_

~oOo~

_Third Person POV: With John & Mycroft_

* * *

"He was utterly horrid, you know." Mycroft muttered into the silence, his quiet voice drifting through the room like poison. It infected John and got under his skin, causing him to shiver at the tired, haunted voice. He had made Mycroft suffer, as well, then. "I don't think I've ever seen him lose control. Not when Father had deserted him as a father when he found out we were gay, not when I betrayed him, nothing would phase his emotional side. He was still Sherlock, yes?"

John nodded, turning his head down to look below him. His hand still grasped at the sheets. "Yes, of course."

"In the beginning, he was just crashed. I tried to keep my distance for a short bit of time – I thought he would snap out of it – but he refused to eat anything on his own and instead of drinking tea, the only think he could do was look at it. He had something that you may familiarize yourself with. PTSD." John inhaled a quick bit of air. "Up until about three months ago, his breath was almost constantly shallow and irregular, his hands shook all the time, his nightmares wouldn't stop and whoever reminded him of you, he avoided them like the plague. I've never….I've never seen anything like it."

"You were scared." John realized momentarily, interrupting Mycroft from continuing. The British Gov't gave him a look of slight distain.

He paused for a moment. Mycroft, ever so slowly, nodded. "Yes, yes. I….do believe I was." Mycroft took a deep breath. He continued. "I spent the night in that haughty flat of yours sometimes on the couch, listening to Sherlock's moans and cries and whimpers like they were contagious."

"I-I'm sorry." John answered to what he was hearing, his heart dropping at a million times per second. Right now, he couldn't envision Sherlock in that type of situation, but when he thought about it, John almost wanted to cry himself. Cry for Sherlock and Mycroft and anyone else he had upset, because he was gone for so long and had made a chain reaction of effects unravel for almost all of his friend. "I'm terribly sorry."

Mycroft didn't reply for a few moments again. The beep of the machine next to John was the only think that filled the white room, and John could feel a heavy amount of pain unravel on Mycroft's shoulders and get placed on his. Mycroft probably didn't see this – he was devoid to most emotion when it came to deductions – but John almost stopped breathing. He was surrounded again. Surrounded with people he had let down, surrounded with people he couldn't help, surrounded with people that were harmed because of _him. _

It was always a constant internal battle for John. He hated hurting people. That's why he chose a profession to save them. However, when there was someone who would flat-line during a surgery or when he had to pick up his gun and shoot the enemy, all he could think was _they had a child at home, a wife at home. What have I done? _That's one reason why John had picked Sherlock. Sherlock gives him purpose. But what if….What if he had lost his purpose? He's doing it again. Harming people. Just like he had in the war. It appeared to be a repeat performance, actually.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, John. What could have helped this situation?"

"I could have –."

"– Done nothing. Literally nothing. Sherlock may be too shaken to know where you had been, but he knows your injuries. And if I were you, I would tell him _exactly what happened _when he asks. It would be too painful for both you and him to lie, even if it does…stir up and swelter in that PTSD." Mycroft finished before John could say anything else. John wasn't surprised in the least. He nodded, yet stayed silent, wishing to hear more but not wishing to hear more.

Mycroft continued anyway. "He would get in fits of anger, sometimes. Throw cups at a wall furiously, scratch at his forearms until they were bloody and ripped, yell at me for hours telling me how much I'm hurting him not letting him die….He would punch the corners of tables on purpose or trip because he felt like falling, things like that. I couldn't even stop some –."

John didn't know what was happening until he felt the first tear fall. The wetness slid down his cheek, as silent as he was, and Mycroft stopped speaking for the moment. John felt ashamed for a moment, being so weak, but then he continued to think of Sherlock and what he had gone through. No matter what physical pain or mental pain he was in, all he could think of was Sherlock. Sherlock, who had physically destructed himself because of John's absence…who had had to live with thinking that John was gone for seven months – even if John remembered his time with thinking Sherlock was dead, _he wasn't like Sherlock. He knew how to deal with emotions better than Sherlock. Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock. What have I done? _

He had dealt with emotion all of his life. Sherlock, however, was new to the whole ordeal and couldn't handle overwhelming sentiments – and that led him to become completely and utterly suicidal. John promised Sherlock he would never leave him – but wasn't that what he did? Didn't he leave Sherlock alone? What kind of lover was he? What kind of _friend _was he?

What kind of….What kind of person was he?

"Why is John crying?" The same voice the blonde had always taken comfort in called angrily from the entrance of the room. John snapped his head forth and looked at Sherlock, but the man was staring at Mycroft with a murderous gaze. "What did you do? Mycroft, _what did you do?!" _Sherlock shouted as he stepped further into the room.

Mycroft stiffened slightly and tilted his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I…I don't kn –."

"_Mycroft. I swear to bloody hell –."_

"Sherlock! Sherlock, no, he didn't do anything, I swear! He just –."

"You're crying, John! What did he _do?" _Sherlock seethed between his teeth, and John could see the evidence of the man's hand shaking uncontrollably. John knew what that was like. Unable to tame your thoughts, your feelings, your pain and agony and _remembering _what it was like afterwards.

John calmed his own breath and shook his head frantically, ignoring the painful tug each and every turn. "He did nothing, Sherlock. It's – he was – he just – I mean, I'm sorry." John got out after a moment, not really knowing what else to say. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't get to you sooner. I'm so sorry that you had to go through –."

"– Mycroft, leave us, please." Sherlock cut off his lover then, giving his brother a pointed stare. Mycroft merely nodded and stood from Sherlock's previous seat, umbrella in hand. As he stepped out of the room, Sherlock took his place next to John, eyes piercing and so solid that it made John freeze in place. "John, do _not _be sorry. Never be sorry. Please, don't." Sherlock murmured quietly as he took ahold of John's hand once more, leaving John to only let go of the sheets. "What would you have to be sorry about?"

John's answer was immediate. "I abandoned you." He said, his jaw set as he forced his tears back. Sherlock noted the tension almost instantly.

"John, you couldn't possibly have known." Sherlock muttered, trying to calm his lover. John dipped his head down and broke eye contact with the man he hadn't seen in what felt like forever. No matter what Sherlock had to say, he still felt so responsible for what happened – for how Sherlock felt, for how he hurt Sherlock, for how he _left _him. How could John do that to his lover?

"I _knew._ Every damned day I was in there, I….I _knew. _Sometimes I thought you were dead again, and then I thought about all the time I had not seen you and how you felt because I went back – god, Sherlock, I thought about my promises, my constant promises, to never leave you. _I broke them all._" John rambled out of his mouth as he forced himself to look into the eyes of the sole man he had lived for, now only wishing that he could die. God, how he wished he could die.

"And _you _were held against your will. You didn't leave me _willingly,_ John. That's the difference." Sherlock replied instantly, not a hint of faltering in his tone. This made John pause and take a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He was scaring Sherlock crying like this. Scaring – or hurting. And he shouldn't do either.

Doing his best, the blonde took a few deep breaths to will the tears back. Thankfully it worked, and soon enough the silence was no longer penetrated by helpless sniffles. Sherlock waited patiently by his side as he regained his composure. After a few more moments of silence, John's voice was strong enough to reply. "I missed you." He uttered again.

Sherlock's lips twitched sadly. "As have I." He stated as he re-wound his fingers alongside John's right hand, offering his protection. At that instant, John felt extremely safe and comfortable; more comfortable than he had been in the past three, almost four years. He was happy for that. The familiar sensation of warmth in his heart powered by his brain was causing some of the previous pain he was in to subside, and as John closed his eyes to simply relish in having the two of them together, he felt Sherlock's thumb begin to stroke his fingers once more. Another smile twitched onto his features.

"Y'know, Mycroft cares a lot. A lot more than I thought he would. About you. And me. And, just, us." John said offhandedly, his eyes still closed. He pretended like he didn't notice that Sherlock didn't stiffen at Mycroft's name anymore. That was extreme progress.

"Yes, I'm aware. It seems as if he does care to an amount. It kind of reminds me when we were young, actually."

At this, John peeked one eye open questioningly. "Young?"

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, yes. Even the great Sherlock Holmes and the British Government were children once, John." The man in the hospital bed rolled his eyes as Sherlock's goofiness, and the two couldn't help but share a chuckle together after. It was odd again, after so long of being away from each other, to just relax in their presence. It was, albeit a little scary, nice.

"What was it like?" John asked as he shifted down a little bit, his head tilted permanently to stare at his lover.

Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling just then, and John recognized that face as that of his deep-thinking one. After a quick bout of silence, the dark-haired man's lips inclined upwards, and he too closed his eyes. John, however, kept his gaze locked on the thin mans. "Silly. I was a strange child, as you're assuming already. I got picked on a lot during school – one of the reasons I detest such things – and Mycroft always managed to stick up for me before they beat me to death. He was always there, I guess. I fall off my horse on my first lessons – he would fix my ankle. I trip on pavement, and he would patch me up."

"So you were a clumsy child?"

"Yes. I wasn't coordinated, what with a large frame in my pubescent stage. Often I would be slow on physical actions – I couldn't fight for myself and I certainly couldn't ride a horse. We used to have to walk home from school when our father forgot about us – mother was always trying to provide money for the family so she wasn't home during school hours – and it was a long walk. Hence my falling."

John giggled as he pictured a small Sherlock running along the side of the road, giggling himself, calling after his older brother to follow him. In elementary school years, his lover must have been quite awkward. Not that he would ever have his lover in any other way, of course. Then Sherlock just wouldn't be Sherlock.

Yet, he also felt a pang of remorse at the fact that Sherlock was bullied so badly. Not that he didn't expect it – Sherlock never got along with the human race – but hearing it so blatantly John remembered just how bad that could be. Outside, John sighed, deciding to keep that little thought as a figment of the past. Sherlock was different now, of course. Stronger.

"During dinners on the holidays he would never leave me alone, either. At the time I hated it, but now I realize that he was watching over me. Even in my family I am an outcast, although welcomed, I was never quite the same. My father and some of my cousin's never did fancy me, so I was always in Mycroft's sights."

"That's so sweet." John smiled softly, causing Sherlock to open his eyes and stare down at his injured partner. "What? Don't look at me like that." John giggled as Sherlock's face cocked to the side, almost challenging him.

"Sherlock always was a royal pain in my arse." Mycroft stated from the door.

Sherlock jumped at the voice, for once taken by surprise, yet John simply sighed and rolled his head back forward. "You know, you guys really need to stop popping up out of nowhere. Not good for my health." John teased, leaving Mycroft to let out a small, timid smile of acknowledgment. Out of the corner of his eye, the blonde watched as Sherlock's brother leaned against the doorframe, staring at the back of his brother's head affectionately.

John chuckled happily as Mycroft replied. "I would assume you were used to it by now due to your lack of response." He teased back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly as John merely nodded. "One would think so." The blonde said back. "Say, Mycroft. Do you have any embarrassing childhood stories about Sherlock that I would love to hear?"

"John, I don't think that My –."

" – Croft would absolutely_ love_ to embarrass his brother? Oh dear, it seems that you are losing your touch, Sherlock. I would never pass on this chance." Sherlock pouted as John and Mycroft laughed. "Now, which story shall I pick from? There was that one summer, and then my ex-boyfriend, and then the pool fiasco –."

" – _Mycroft."_

"My, actually. Isn't that what you used to call me when you were little? _Come along, My! We have a new dead rabbit to examine! The wolves seem to have gotten to it! Oh, My, can you read me another bedtime story? My, can you sing me Hush Little Baby again? My, can you take a shower with –."_

"OKAY. We get it, Mycroft. Memories. Sentiment. You've proven your point."

"Oh no, Mycroft. Please do tell. And Sherlock, be quiet. I'll even tell you some of my embarrassing stories."

Sherlock didn't respond. John took this as a yes, as did Mycroft, who was absentmindedly twiddling his umbrella in his hands. The paler man was adorning an extremely red, extremely adorable blush, which John couldn't help but find absolutely endearing.

"Alright, the pool fiasco then." Sherlock groaned in response and removed his hand from John's to cover his face. John didn't mind the lost contact at all for once because it was one of those rare actions that John tucked away in the back of his mind – just so he knew that Sherlock could be embarrassed by such little things and not….Other things.

"Go ahead." John prompted Mycroft fondly.

The shorter brother nodded. "Ah, yes. I do believe it was August thirteenth, 1994. Yes?" Mycroft asked, although received no answer. This only made the two even more prompted to taunt. "Sherlock was twelve and I was seventeen. I had taken him to the beach to teach him how to swim – a private one owned by us, of course, because Sherlock would never go anywhere else. My boyfriend at the time had come along, and he was a terrible prankster. Loved to torture Sherlock."

"Sherlock was an easy, quick learner – because when he was little, he actually listened to what I had to say – and soon enough he had gotten the hang of it and went into deep waters. Of course he was fine, I made sure of that, but my boyfriend thought it was nice to sneak up under him while as he was floating."

"You let him." Sherlock grumbled as he interrupted.

Mycroft grinned at the back of Sherlock's head. "I did no such thing." He scoffed, although they all knew it was in a funny manner. _Ah, civil rivalry. I do know how that is. _John thought absently. "Anyway, Luke, his name was, snuck up under Sherlock as he was staring at the clouds, and had managed to catch him by surprise and steal his swimming trunks."

"That wasn't even the embarrassing part." Sherlock uttered then, looking peeved as he turned around to glare at his brother. "You managed to catch me running after him on _camera!" _

"Camera?" John popped up into the conversation. "Do tell me you still have a copy of this video."

"Well…."

"Mycroft, no."

"I happen to –."

"– Mycroft!"

"– have about forty-three copies strewn in a few miscellaneous places where Sherlock will never reach. I could show you if you like."

Sherlock was fuming by now – face light up and splashed with a bright red colour. John smiled inwardly but outwardly laughed at the face; Sherlock looked so peeved – but he at least looked happy. Well, mad, but….Less tense, actually. That was good in his books.

That….And he really wanted to see this video.

Bad.

"I thought you rid of them all! I-I _threatened _you!" Sherlock sputtered, still in his seat.

Mycroft gave his brother an incredulous stare. "You and I both know that I am the better one at threatening. And besides, I'm one of the few that can lie to you and get away with it."

"MYCROFT!"

"Don't worry, John will be the only other soul in the world still alive to see this."

"That's the point!"

"Oh, do hush Sherlock, you'll bother the other patrons."

"Shut up, John."

"You should really take some of your own advice sometimes."

"John…."

"Yes?"

"I think I may just kill you instead."

"Awe, now Mycroft wouldn't let that happen, would you Mycroft?"

"Of course not. Where would any of the Holmes's be without their blogger?"

"Exactly. See, Sherlock? You should listen to your brother once in a while. He isn't a bad bloke."

"You guys are utterly terrible. I will not let you see that video. Never."

"Ah-huh. That's what _you _think."

"That's what I know."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Mycroft works in mysterious ways."

"I do."

"Yes."

"Why are you taking his side, anyway? You're my lover!"

"….I want to see the video."

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, dearest brother?"

"Go to hell."


	6. Boredom is an Illness

So, this chapter is a lot of more FEELZ. But after this one, thank god, something's going to happen. xD Not saying it's good or bad or even a lot of progress, but simply more than talking about feelz in a hospital. Not that I have nothing against cuddly, fluffy times - at all. But yeah, thanks for the reviews, I appreciate them so much more than you guys know, especially when I know this isn't one of my better works.

So, with nothing else to say, I say TO NARNIA!

Infinity and beyond?

Anyone?

*Silence.*

Well, *coughs*, anyway, please R&R? x3 See you soon!

* * *

Dear John

_Chapter Six: Boredom is an Illness _

~oOo~

_Third Person POV_

* * *

If John had to summarize the hospital in one word entirely, it would be boring. Just plain, civically, boring. The only other occupants were trained nurses, doctors, and other army patients – which, most of them, John refused to look at. It reminded him of his past too much, and at that moment he wasn't too keen on focusing on his past problems but more so his future. The blonde knew that eventually Sherlock was going to out and ask the question 'what happened,' but John didn't want to answer that. He didn't want to believe it.

"_Be a good boy and drop to your knees, you cunt. Suck that cock good, yeah?" _

John shook his head as he forced that rough tone out of his mind. It frightened him, hearing that, so he decided to focus on the ceiling in response. Sherlock had gone out to make him tea downstairs and Mycroft was working on finding his assailants. Even for Mycroft, he knew that wouldn't be easy. Their plans were elaborate, and John never knew where they were. He never knew how they got there, why they were there – conversations were hushed and away from him – and John had only met another captive once.

His name was Thomas. Thomas…Behkmit? Something German, he was sure, but as to how he pronounced it, Watson had no clue. His hair was a tinged dirty blonde, with deep blue eyes that were hollowed with his time in that place, around those people. Thomas was slightly taller than John, but not by much, and was thinner frame-wise. Kind of fragile, but still with slight muscle hinting that he had previously been pretty built before going inside…that place.

John liked Thomas. He was sweet. Kind. Kind and sweet. It was a different type of person, John guessed, fresh in a way – like Sherlock. Although Sherlock was fresh every day. The doctor had had to do things to Thomas, things he didn't want to think about, but Thomas never held that against him. Sometimes Thomas was force to do things to him as well, when not pleasuring someone else in their little mafia-like party, and as much as he knew it was wrong, he couldn't blame the other either.

They would have died if not doing so. And if he had actually died, Sherlock would have had to suffer more.

John rolled his eyes then and slid them shut for the moment, chucking out a deep sigh that calmed his erratic heart. There was no use worrying about it now. If Sherlock was upset with him….Well, he didn't know what he would do, but John would respect whatever the dark-haired lover of his would provide. If Sherlock were to tell him that he wouldn't touch John again, he would accept that. If Sherlock were to tell him that he wanted to split up, he would accept that. If Sherlock were to tell him that he was plain disgusted and wouldn't talk to him….He would accept that.

As much as John hated to admit it, those scenarios with Sherlock were right.

John just felt….Impure. With Sherlock, everything was – for the lack of a better word – magical. But with them? Plain dirty, and horrible, and creepy and kinky and scary, not that he would ever admit that aloud. Sherlock had every right to be upset with him. It was set in stone already though, having to tell Sherlock. The matter was actually when.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later, carrying two plastic cups of hot tea. John almost moaned as the smell of herbs invaded his senses – _God, did that smell good. _"Thank you, Sherlock." He said to his lover as the man sat and gave him his tea. John's hands were less shaky now – strong enough to hold most objects and braced so his wrist wouldn't miss-lodge itself. Sherlock nodded and leaned back in his own chair, foot bouncing subconsciously. "It's bloody boring in here, right?" John asked knowingly.

Sherlock and John shared a timid smile. "Had no time to think about how boring it was what with worrying about you all the time." The dark-haired man replied truthfully, causing John to smile momentarily again. Sherlock was actually quite the romantic when he thought about it. If ever said aloud, Sherlock would deny that, but he couldn't deny the cheesiness he would say almost instinctively.

"That's sweet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They sat in silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other's presence. They had done so the last two days – whenever Mycroft didn't drop by and make more embarrassing comments to Sherlock. Speaking of, the two of them had gotten along a lot better lately – he was happy for Sherlock. And Mycroft, too. God knows it isn't easy sticking by Sherlock's side to help him even when he thinks he doesn't need it.

Speaking of….

"How long did it take you to go to Mycroft, Sherlock?" John asked as he continued to stare at the bland, yellowing ceiling, brow furrowed in curiosity. Sherlock 'hmmed' from the side of him, as if it was an obvious question.

"Seconds after getting your letter. I assume when you had written that it was a good four to five day wait, considering you don't believe in email." Sherlock chuckled lightly, leaving John to only guffaw.

"Sherlock, you know I'm not allowed electronics." John replied as if it was obvious, knowing that Sherlock had already known this. After all, he had repeatedly told his lover that _no electronics allowed _were more or less _specifically _speaking of phones and computers. Sherlock had begrudgingly accepted this reason, but it didn't mean he liked it.

"Whatever. We would have found you sooner if the letter had come sooner." Sherlock muttered more to himself than John.

John sighed, knowing Sherlock was still brutally stabbing himself inside for not knowing where John was. "There was nothing you could have done. I didn't ever know where I was and I was released no information – they trusted people very sparingly. They were good, Sherlock, that was it." _What really mattered was that you went to Mycroft for me. My safety. Thank you, Sherlock, for coming so soon. Thank you. _

"But when I get my hands on them…."

"I do hope you won't."

"John, I –."

"Look, I get it Sherlock." John closed his eyes as his lover began to argue with him. This was one attribute he could do without. "If you remember correctly I had to live three years thinking you were dead, and each and every day I wanted to murder Moriarty for, in some way, causing what had happened – even before I knew what was going on. You want to rip open each and every throat you can get ahold of, and I know, I do. It would feel incredible. But I can't risk you getting hurt because of it. These people aren't to be taken lightly."

"I know they aren't." Sherlock replied stiffly. The mood had changed drastically. It was tense now – not alarming or scary, but John could feel it. Sherlock was getting depressed. Not the normal, pouting depressed, but his actual depression. John gulped and continued to listen. "And Mycroft would ensure I would not be hurt. Even if they were more well-trained than the average organization, they are no match for Mycroft." He said, sounding so sure of himself.

"No, Sherlock."

"But –."

"Sherlock. Please. _No." _

Sherlock stared desperately at John, yet his gaze would not waver. He had to stick to this. He wouldn't let Sherlock go anymore, not like this. He was done. They were done. The only thing they would do from now on were cases, and if those cases got too deep, he would make Sherlock pull out, regardless of what his lover had to say. In his time with – with those _things, _John had realized that he valued Sherlock more than anything and everything that he owned.

And he would not risk that for some common murderer. The police would have to find someone else.

"John, I have to."

John sighed and glanced down, fisting his hands in the sheets that had been keeping him company within the hospital for quite some time. Sherlock was quiet, yet demanding, and the blonde couldn't help but flinch at the tone that was being used. "Then you mustn't leave me behind. I want to know everything, Sherlock, _everything. _Where you go, I must follow, regardless of how trivial or dangerous."

Sherlock's expression dampened even more than it was already, but he only nodded curtly as a response. John relaxed. If anything, at least he would be there for Sherlock. His lover wouldn't go back on his word, he knew, and he would do his best with keeping up with his counterpart. Even if he was stupid to Sherlock – well, not _stupid, _but certainly not to his caliber – he would make sure that he benefited from their situation.

"How are your wounds?" Sherlock asked, still quite stiff. John shook his head.

"I'm sore in multiple places, but I believe that after a little physical therapy I will be good." John smiled up at Sherlock, who chuckled in response. "Except my bum is extremely sore from sitting in the same spot for the last – two weeks? Three?" John asked absently. It seemed like Sherlock thought about it as well.

"I'm…unsure. Never counted the days."

"Wow, I'm getting a lot of attention from you aren't I?" John teased absentmindedly, happy when he saw the smile flicker across Sherlock's face as well. And, of course, he pretended like he didn't see the brush of pink that gathered across the taunt cheekbones that formatted the dark-haired figure.

"Do shut up, John. I think that it is quite appropriate."

"Well, thank you, nonetheless. I appreciate your care." John spoke sincerely, hoping that Sherlock knew just how grateful he was. It was still shocking that the boring, not-so-sociable John Watson could tame the exotic being known as Sherlock Holmes – hell, even a little bit of Mycroft. For the first year of knowing Sherlock, he thought – no, he _knew _that he had no chance with the man – and then when he thought he had the slightest bit, Sherlock goes and 'dies' on him. Then he comes back, they get together, and he goes back to the army.

God, was he an asshole or what?

"John?" Sherlock asked, causing John to blink and resume staring into the smoldering blue eyes that he had fallen in love with a good while ago. "Are you okay? Is something hurting?" Sherlock wondered briefly, but John could just smile a bit goofily.

"Do tell me your deduction skills aren't rusty, Sherlock? Surely, you can deduce."

Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair, taking that as a 'yes, I am alright.' As he didn't respond, John decided he should continue. "I'm sorry I left you for the army." John said more to thin air than Sherlock. He turned his head forthright so he was staring at the wall opposite form him. Suddenly, he could feel the outline of the gun under his pillow. It burned not only into the back of his head, but his brain and his thoughts alike. "I should have known something would go wrong. It_ is_ the army after all."

Sherlock shook his head just as the words were uttered from his mouth. Through his peripheral vision, John could see the dark curls bounce around his face like a dark, demeaning halo. "Stop with the apologizing already. You did what you must, and John, I wouldn't like you if you weren't you. And you would fight in the army. That's just who you are."

"But I never meant to –."

"Neither do the fathers of three children with a wife back at home. It just happens, John. That's it. However, knowing that someone was targeting you specifically will cause for some upsetting nights, but that's a given."

John gulped but nodded, knowing that what Sherlock was saying held nothing but truth to it. Although he knew that the blue-eyed man was telling him nothing but the truth, he still couldn't help but feel guilty. It was a natural and serious reaction. Yet, it wouldn't cause his PTSD to act up any more than it already was, so that was, indeed, a plus. He had to admit he was also guilty for causing Sherlock to relapse in a fit of PTSD – he knew what happened down _that_ road and it was never good.

However, he kept his mouth shut. Sherlock didn't want to hear any more apologies. "So, do you know when I get out of here?" He asked instead into the silence, knowing that Sherlock knew the answer. After all, the previously known consulting detective was itching to get out of this place. Too many people to speak to, which John knew made Sherlock extremely uncomfortable.

"Three more days. Thank god, this bloody place is crawling with stupidity." Sherlock scolded the thin air, which made John smile at nothing in particular. His Sherlock was already coming back to life. He was light a light0bulb, John reasoned inside of his head. A light-bulb that had flickered off for a short time and was no use to anything, not even himself, because nothing was there to power him. John was the electricity. He would always be that spark to start Sherlock up, and when he was shining bright, the mere invention was one of the most brilliant things known to mankind.

Yeah, he liked that. Sherlock was his light bulb, and he was the electric spark. The plug in. The evolutionary counterpart to the amazing figure known as this genius.

"You've already suffered two weeks, Sherlock. This shouldn't be much longer." John scolded the other who was hell-bent on complaining. Sherlock groaned in response.

"But _John –."_

"But _Sherlock –." _John mocked.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Doing _that."_

"That? You must be more specific."

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Stop."

"Stahp. Just stahp, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at the awkward sound that came out of John for a moment, wondering how the older being could make such a high-pitched sound as that. John, keeping his face straight as straight could be, kept staring at Sherlock until his own bow lips quirked in a large, amused grin. John followed seconds later, and not soon after the room was filled with laugher. Sherlock's laugh rung in John's head like ringing bells – the deep, husky laugh managing to give him shivers after so many scenes of depression. It was good to laugh like this, he realized, as his own voice melded with his lover's.

His chest began to hurt with a dull pain after a moment or so of the laughter, so he had to gradually calm done from the funny moment. Alongside him, Sherlock did so as well, lifting his hand to cover his mouth because of the tiny obnoxious sounds that seemed to pull themselves out past two perfect bow lips.

"John, that was slightly intimidatingly scary." Sherlock mocked his boyfriend with his quirked lips, causing John to give him a wicked grin in response.

"Good to know. I must use it more often then, shall I?" John pressed, leaving Sherlock to only roll his crystal eyes.

They settled for silence again, this time a lot more comforting than their previous one, free of all the tension that seemed to be around them lately. John relaxed into the uncomfortable bed, thinking that it was going to be a bitch to continue with physical therapy when he got out of this bloody place. Not to mention he had to be wheeled for the next week until he got back on his feet – when was the last time he was walking? – And furthermore had to work off the breaks, sprains, and be careful with the staples.

Now that he thought about it, after the hospital was going to be bloody horrid.

At least he had Sherlock with him. It would either make his work a lot less or a lot more difficult.

"Ursa Major." Sherlock suddenly interrupted the silence. John casted a slightly shocked, slightly worried gaze over to the man who had just blurted out a constellation for no apparent reason. "You remind me of Ursa Major. People know it's there, but they never see the full constellation for its. To some it's viewed as a bear, but most only see the Big Dipper inside of it. They never look at the co-joining stars. You, John, are those co-joining stars. Special and always there, in the background, holding up the rest of the world."

John's lips twitched at Sherlock's almost childish analogy. "You are Alioth." Sherlock continued before he could say anything. "You are the brightest star in that constellation, but the most forgotten. I will never forget you. I could never." Sherlock analyzed what he was saying as the words were coming out. John, however, simply sank in the fact that Sherlock was rambling about _stars _when it was pretty obvious he's deleted them long ago.

"You've been studying. Why?" John asked, slightly confused. His blonde brow furrowed in contemplation.

The once-consulting detective hummed and leaned back in, placing his head next to John's lax hand while wrapping his own arms under his chin to cradle it. Sherlock didn't look up, but continued to stare at the unmoving figure in front of him. "You wanted me to remember the solar system. The sky. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto being the most-common virtually argued 'dwarf-planet' as many mean to speak of it as. Obviously, it still carries the characteristics of a planet, therefore it will always be in my mind."

"Sherlock…." John trailed as he stared down at his lovers face. Sherlock closed his eyes. The blonde traced the man's contours of his features with his sky blue eyes, wondering what he was babbling on about. Half muffled by his sleeve, Sherlock replied.

"I used to….Look at the stars…as a child." Sherlock yawned as he spoke, the tired sound making John was to smile goofily again. "They interested me. Father told me they were useless, I never looked at them again. They're beautiful….Like your eyes, John. I love your eyes. They're….warm. And soft. I had to…remember you…learn constellations….Remembered why I loved them…." John's heart lurched at the fact that Sherlock was being so romantic without really knowing it. A new warmth filled him, and John realized he was truly, finally, happy. Safe. And happy.

He hadn't felt like this in three years.

John was half-expecting his lover to continue, but Sherlock, apparently, had other ideas and fell completely and utterly in a quiet slumber. Half shocked that Sherlock once paid attention to simple things such as the sky, and half upset that his father was so rude to his son. Now that he thought back on it, he remembered wondering why Sherlock was so upset when he told John that he knew nothing of the sort. John had always thought it was because Sherlock hated to admit when he didn't know something that John knew, but apparently not.

It was kind of sad. Sherlock had so many things he enjoyed taken away from him – John almost being one of them. And that gave John a whole new wave of guilt. If he had died, would Sherlock had followed? The mere thought was repulsing, but the more John thought about it, it was more than likely true. Mycroft would have let him die then, no matter how much he would have suffered. Simply stating a fact, not in the vain way, but Sherlock had no one else to rely on but him.

John drifted off as well thinking that he would always, _always _stay by Sherlock's side. No more leaving him.

Not if he could help it.


	7. This Is Bloody Stupid!

_There is a link for what the CPM Machine looks like on my profile, just in case you're wondering what the hell John is in._ xD Other than that, just a lot of depressing angst and fluff at the end because John's so impatient even while being patient. xD It's been a pretty damned long time since I had updated, so for that I'm sorry, but I may as well just wish you guys a Happy New Year a whole nine days late. xD Thank you for the reviews and I'll see ya soon?

Dear John

_Chapter Seven: This is Bloody Stupid!_

~oOo~

_Third Person POV_

Three days passed without many obscene happenings. Mycroft had stopped over twice within those remaining lapses of time, one when his brother there and one when he was not. Despite John's previous lack of emotions towards his lovers elder brother, the blonde found himself liking Mycroft much more than he previously had. Once he put the betrayal aside – he wasn't sure he would ever be able to forgive him for that – the bloke wasn't such a terrible person. He actually did care about Sherlock; he cared about Sherlock a lot, more or less.

Other than talking with Mycroft, he and his lover had just goofed around those remaining days. Sherlock deduced every nurse he had had – and by god, some of them were pretty darn dirty – and he had worked on teaching the dark-haired man a few more constellations that he hadn't yet heard of that John absolutely adored. It was calm and everything, something John wasn't really used to while hanging around his boyfriend, and it wasn't as bad as he had predicted it to be.

Besides the food, anyway. Sherlock snuck some things in sometimes, but mostly the hospital would only allow any army-originated food and their own, so the blonde had told his counterpart to stop so he didn't get in some sort of trouble. People in the force never took kindly to those who broke the rules.

Now, though, the only thing that John was able to do was sit in some technical wheelchair waiting for his lover to sign him out of the hospital. He was back in his forest green head-doctor's suit, being his fighting one was adorned with those two bullet holes that he hadn't gotten around to sewing. In his hand rested the papers saying his physical therapist and some details on how to work his injuries – the ACL tear was the only one that would ache for a good, long while – and the appointment for getting all of his staples out.

Mycroft had provided him a ride to his sessions, and Sherlock would be tagging along. John hadn't remembered the last time he had had support like this. It was refreshing.

"Alright, that should be it," the nurse added quietly as Sherlock shuffled some of the paperwork he himself was given, "and do make sure you use the ice machine while he rests in the CPM, yes? It will take down most of the swelling." Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at the lady, having known this already. John fought back a giggle as he overheard the conversation.

"Oh yes, I am aware." Sherlock mocked sincerely. The woman didn't even bat an eye. "Oh, and you should stop spending your time with that receptionist and spend more time with your husband. He's getting finicky, I believe. Started noticing your actions a week or so ago, which is why he doesn't take time admiring you anymore. Have a good day."

Before the woman could reply, Sherlock turned heel, a dramatic sigh in wake. John rolled his eyes at the tactics that could not belong to anyone but the consulting detective himself, having seen this a million or so times. Reactions were always different, though. The blonde loved them. "You have the dressings, yes?" John asked the taller figure as he took ahold of the wheelchair, beginning to push him along. He ignored the slight feeling of discomfort having to have Sherlock take care of him.

"At the flat with Mycroft already."

John nodded affirmative as he was wheeled, chin high, out of the hospital.

~oOo~

The first thing John did when he got home – er, well, Sherlock anyway – was get carried up to his bed. He still was in no shape to walk, hence the wheelchair, and he wasn't the biggest fan of something known at 'crutches'. When he had told his lover that, Sherlock hadn't even asked before lifting him up, leaving poor Mrs. Hudson to pick up the fallen pieces of metal to place them upstairs by their door.

As he was placed as soft as possible onto the bed, John Watson immediately realized just how quiet it had been. Sherlock wasn't speaking like he usually was, and John didn't have much else to say. The dark-haired figure crawled into the bed with his lover though, and he made sure to take care of the injured man next to him so he wasn't hurt so bad. Slowly, almost in a scared fashion, John looked up at Sherlock, trying to figure out what was the matter.

"Sherlock?" John decided to ask, instead of racking his brain, trying to understand the most improbable man in all of London.

"Mmn?" Mumbled the other, due to the fact that Sherlock was still nuzzled in the blonde tuft of hair on top of his head. Said blonde rolled his eyes in a very Sherlock-y fashion, willing himself not to get agitated at the unresponsive boyfriend.

"Is there something wrong?"

John gulped as he felt his lover move away from him just enough to look into his eyes; those eyes Sherlock owned that bore into his soul and made him feel naked even when fully clothed. He could get lost in those eyes – god, he could swim in them forever and not bother to try and get out because they were just so _beautiful. _Unlike John, they weren't really war, per se, but they were calculating and emotional in their own way. Sherlock didn't reply though, and with a few seconds that seemed to pass, John's brow furrowed.

Had he said something wrong? It wasn't like Sherlock to be this quiet. Well, uncomfortably quiet anyway. Whenever he was in his mind palace or in a deep thought, he always got quiet, but that was almost always during a case. Just during a case.

John bit his lip and broke eye-contact with his lover, instead managing to nuzzle his way back into Sherlock's shoulder. His hands rested just below the dark-haired man's collarbone, having nowhere else to put them with being wrapped around so tightly.

"I…." Sherlock trailed with a gruff, almost foreign voice. John stiffened, but he didn't dare move again. "I don't really know. I just feel lost, most likely. But god, when you had gone, I don't remember how much I wished I would be able to hold you like this again, making sure you were absolutely safe and out of the harm of anyone else. It made me feel useless, finding you so…so broken, thinking you were dead, not bothering to look for you. I –…."

"Sherlock." John said sternly, his face hard. This time he did glance up to look at his lover. "Don't call me broken."

Sherlock, in a bit of surprise, met the eyes of the man he had thought he lost. Inside those crystal orbs Sherlock saw loneliness again, fear, anger, and above all, _hate. _He knew that hate wasn't distributed to him, but he knew, he just knew, that John was beginning the first round of recovery. Was he going to talk? Was he going to say that he was worthless? John could never be worthless in his eyes. He, the first time he had laid eyes on the man after he had received the letter, had seen a measure of self-disgust in the back of John that he knew he didn't like – was this what John was feeling?

"I didn't mean you emotionally, John. I meant physically. God, you were just so _bad. _You looked like death had already come from you and taken you away, like a fragile doll that had been shattered. The bruises, the gauze, the stitches and machines and electronics all around you…I was so scared. I thought I might have to lose you again." Sherlock admitted, this time closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to meet John's.

John glanced away again, a soft gulp his only source of satisfaction. He had become tense in his lovers arms again, but this time because he felt like keeping what had happened to him was…it made him feel secretive. Sherlock didn't deserve that. He had already suffered so much, and he's going to make him suffer even more? What kind of boyfriend was he? What kind of lover?

John cleared his throat and repositioned himself so he was once again buried away from the gaze of Sherlock. With a deep breath, he spoke. "I-I….There was this man. His name was Thomas. He was…he was in there, held captive, like me." John began, his voice quivering. "He didn't make it. But…But they made us _do _things to each other, and god, it was terrible. I don't even know. What we did, what they made us do….Torture, sex, fighting like animals, caged and…And branded, we were branded, Sherlock." John muttered, nearly silent, remembering the exact moment he was taken into a room and had numbers burned into his skin, marking him. Oh it had hurt so badly.

"Branded?" Sherlock stated, definitely not knowing what he was talking about. John fisted the clothing on Sherlock's chest and buried his face deeper into the taller man's chest, trying to hide himself even further.

"Branded. It's…We have one on our ankle, and one on the back of my neck. I had a collar with my numbers on it as well – 41324. It had hurt so much getting it on my skin, searing and tearing and burning – but it felt like bliss compared to other things. Sherlock, I had to _torture _people. People tortured me. It was almost like a whole organization, planned out and based like slavery. I had to stitch myself up on more than one occasion, sometimes not fed for days, and – and it….It made me so _impure._ Somehow, we –…." John drifted off again as he felt the first of many memories flash back behind his eyes.

He almost felt like he was back there again instead of in the bed with his lover. He knew he was still there, but never having experienced something like he had just gone through before – oh, it was scary. Frightening. John was no stranger to frightened, but this was a new fear. _Raw. Purely raw._

"Shhh, John." Sherlock hushed the man under him as he brought the arm he had over John's waist up to stroke his hair. "Hush little baby, don't you cry, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird, and if that mockingbird doesn't sing, Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns to brass, Momma's gonna buy you a looking glass…."

In tune with Sherlock's singing, John's breath had evened and whatever thoughts that were swimming around his head began to fade. Hoping it would do the trick, the blonde focused on Sherlock's voice and Sherlock's voice only. He tuned out everything and anything else. Nothing. Just him and his lover. There was no one out there but them, they were all they needed.

John faded to sleep to Sherlock's lulling not long after, for once in his pitiful life not having a single dream.

~oOo~

Sherlock was pissed. He was utterly, completely, absolutely _livid. _After hearing the first beginnings of John's time there, the only thing he could remember feeling was sheer _anger. _How could someone do that to John? Why would someone do that to John? What had he ever bloody done? He could think of so many people that deserved what they had gotten, but John….? John was a mess. A complete, utter mess. He had gotten so much more than he could ever deserve and that was simply unacceptable.

Glancing down, Sherlock watched the even breath of John. He would have to wake the other up soon to get him in his CPM machine, but he didn't want to. For once Watson looked completely harmless and happy, not fearful or damaged or scared or anything. He was just John.

Sherlock would abide John's wishes. He wouldn't go out and search for that organization until John was better. That would be a good year, but that didn't mean he couldn't monitor them for that time. Mycroft would surely help with this situation. His brother also had a strange bond with his lover – one he had never seen in a man who thought all emotion was wrong – and that's how he knew John was special. Mycroft didn't do favors for just anyone.

Though when he got his hands on those bloody bastards….

Sherlock hadn't fought with anyone in quite a while. It was a useless need of energy, something he didn't need to entertain himself with anymore. But when he was little and he acted out due to the lack of friends, he had always found himself in a corner. Bullies and whatnot taught him one good thing in his history – how to fight dirty. And when he got every single bloody man that had forced John to do things he hadn't wanted to do – they weren't just going to _pay. _What he was going to do certainly wouldn't be qualified as legal, and Mycroft knew it.

Mycroft didn't really care.

No, he did care. He cared so much that he didn't care that Sherlock would become an animal while as forcing those men to bow down to him, beat them and brutally kill each and every single one of them, because Mycroft would have done the exact same thing. He did care.

John, in his arms, shifted slightly and groaned, but otherwise stayed asleep. With another glance down, Sherlock settled for putting all of those cross thoughts out of his mind and instead focus on the panes of John's sleeping, painless face. He could never get tired of that face. It was, in fact, something that he used when he himself was upset and forced that picture under his eyelids, remembering that John was _that one good thing _that Sherlock would never give up.

He missed the John before the war, oh, yes he did, and that wasn't something strange or conflicted to him. He didn't miss that John because he had less scars or had been more innocent, but he missed it because now – John's mind would never be the same. He would have more nightmares than he had ever had in the army and Sherlock wouldn't be able to do anything about it. He wouldn't, he knew. That made him feel helpless. How could he protect John like this? How could he try to shelter his lover from those terrible thoughts that must burn inside of his head and replay over, and over, and over.

Sherlock didn't want John to change again, to tell the truth. But he knew John would, and regardless of how different it was, he would deal with it.

He would do anything for John.

~oOo~

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"How much longer?"

"Two hours, John."

"Ugh."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his lover's petulant impatience. About three hours later Sherlock had to wake John up to put him in the machine, and now, six hours later, he had gauged that about every twenty minutes John had asked how much longer he had to stay inside the machine. He had made a point in this time to take down any lingering clocks that would hint at the time so John wouldn't feel quite as miserable stuck in that moving CPM, but even then he knew that John wasn't having the best of fun.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock bit back another smile and he tilted his head in John's direction, thinking how cute it was how for once John was the impatient one. "Yes?" He asked again, raising an eyebrow in his direction, hinting at how amused he was. That earned a glare from John.

_At least some things didn't change._

"I want a tattoo."

…_What?_

"What?" Sherlock stated, his face drawing a blank as he processed what John Hamish Watson had just said. A tattoo? Why in the world would John want a tattoo? Not that he was particularly against it, he liked tattoos himself, but picturing John with them kind of made him feel like he was making John…un-innocent again.

"A tattoo. I want one." John clarified as he stared blankly at the ceiling, his face slightly scrunched up in pain. On a lesser man Sherlock made a side note that that machine would probably make plenty of other people bawl their eyes out. John certainly had a high threshold for pain.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, unable to deduce due to his sheer shock. In truth he was seriously not expecting what John had said.

"Because." John looked slightly uncomfortable. "I want it for my ankle and the back of my neck." He stated offhandedly, not really trying to meet the gaze of his lover. Sherlock continued to stare at the injured blonde for a few seconds, before his face drew back in realization. On another side-note his brain felt impeccably slow at this moment. That was new.

"For your…markings?" Sherlock stated more than questioned in his tone, but he was honestly confused. John just nodded.

"You can call them brandings. It…I just want them gone." John muttered at last, figuring this was one of the best times to get out what he was trying to say. To be honest, John was ready to take a knife to that whole chunk of skin just to tear it off of him, but he was sure Sherlock, no matter how morbid, wouldn't let him do such a thing.

Sherlock sat up from the bottom of the bed, hid full body now facing John while as sitting Indian styled. He knew exactly where this was coming from, and Sherlock would like nothing more than to call John out on it and tell him exactly how he felt about it, but he wasn't going to because that would conceive more memories than John was willing to see so soon. Instead, he nodded, and made a small smile form on his features.

"What did you have in mind?" He said instead, deciding to continue on this conversation for as long as he was able to.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson knew that a storm was coming. They both knew during their small conversations. They knew. Yet, they wouldn't address it until the proper time, and until then, conversations like these will have to do the job. John, though, knew that his walls were wearing a lot thinner than he was willing to admit, and therefore that was a big warning. It was going to be soon.

He knew he was going to crack soon. They both did. Sherlock was still trying to span out the days and make John forget, but John knew he couldn't. He wouldn't be able to. But it would have to last. He had to last at least until he was better. That meant a good couple of months until he was almost-kind-of-mobile.

John had to last these next few months.

He was just glad he had Sherlock to get him through them.


	8. Remembering

Le gasp! I actually completed something fairly soon. xD This is totally new for me, but within the past week I found a lot more inspiration than I should probably, mostly because I've been caught up in useless romantic fantasies over my girlfriend while pitying my actual relationship with her. xD So yeah, when I get depressed I write either Johnlock, Wincest, or TenJack, so this is what spurred me on to update quicker. Not that you actually wanted to know that.

Anyway, with this cheesy, fluffy update, I hope you like. xD To be honest, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with in this story. Wait, actually, no, I do know where I'm going, but I don't know how to get there. So until I figure that out, I may as well make chapters like this. xD

Anyway, I hope you like!

R&R, please? I would greatly appreciate it. xD

Dear John

_Chapter Eight: Remembering_

~oOo~

_Third Person POV_

"I can't believe this."

"You'd better John. It's not like you can stand and take a shower alone – that offers too many risks that I would much rather not entertain." Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes with a plain look to his features, almost like a blanch, leaving the blonde that had been complaining all of the three days he had been home to get even more agitated. He had never been this inconvenienced before – he could barely open his left eyes now, because of the scabbing on the wound down his face, his leg was cramped and pained and bloody bloated, his chest hurt and the bullet wound on his leg was more than tender.

"I have to sit in a bloody _chair _in a _bathtub _and get washed _for the first time in months _by _my boyfriend. _Now, I'd think there is something wrong with this picture." John complained as Sherlock maneuvered around his form that was sitting on top of the toilet seat, situating him out of the cloths that he had been wearing for the three days that he had been home. Right now he felt extremely helpless – well, helpless and like a walking vegetable.

His body did really hurt like hell.

"Quit complaining. You're getting a shower after I wrap up your knee, and not even the doctor can say anything about it."

"Ah, of course. Because I'm totally supposed to be showering. I shouldn't be showering for another week."

"Well tough. You haven't had one in months."

"Got kind of used to it, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask."

"Hmph."

"Besides, you'll realize how much you missed showers after getting in one, so I'd rather not listen to your ramblings."

"_In a chair."_

"People have done worse."

John huffed out another sigh but let Sherlock win the conversation, mostly because he knew he was being extremely unreasonable and bipolar. Of course he had wanted a shower, but John Hamish Watson usually did everything that needed be by himself – he never let others take care of him. Maybe it was a weird quirk of being a doctor (and a soldier) or something, but he didn't really like it. It felt like he owed the other person something. Retribution. And he didn't like that.

"Sorry." John apologized after a moment, another long sigh deriving from his lungs. Sherlock, who had just placed a towel down on the metal chair to keep him from freezing his ass off, turned and looked at him, a small smile and a raised eyebrow being the one thing that John picked up on. Another huff. Sherlock was just rubbing it in, wasn't he?

"Quite alright, John. After all, you take care of me all the time." Sherlock replied honestly as he turned around and kneeled in front of John. "Alright, the shirt."

"The shirt?" John raised an eyebrow. "Can't I keep it on until you wrap my leg? I'll freeze." It was quite chilly in here. That, and his chest was sort of disgusting to look at. He hadn't even dared to look in a mirror, either, to see the tear of skin on his face. It wasn't pretty, he was sure.

Sherlock shook his head but complied. The blonde watched for a moment as Sherlock's curls bounced on top of his head, and suddenly he realized that that was one of the things he had missed most about Sherlock. He missed his hair. That obnoxious, unruly tuft of beautiful dark, ebony locks was something that comforted John – in a strange kind of way. That, and his eyes. His hair contrasted beautifully with his eyes.

"You're staring." Sherlock pointed out, already turned away to grab the clear wrappings. John did the best that he could to stretch out his leg, using his arms to move the appendage instead of his mostly useless asset. Sherlock kneeled and took the plastic to John's unwrapped leg, his face contorting a little bit as he watched the staples pull at John's skin. The blonde forced out a small chuckle.

"What, scared of a few staples?" John taunted, his mood swings still forcing their way through. Inwardly he cursed himself for being so bloody irritable, but he had a feeling he deserved the few days of utter relaxation…well, as much relaxing as he could get. He only got out of the bed once or twice a day to use the restroom, which was, of course, still quite difficult – and that left the rest of his body completely and utterly shut down.

"Of course not, John. Who do you think you are speaking to?" Sherlock shook his head, as if offended that he was teasing the other for his lack of stomach. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm just saying. There's a difference between the living and nonliving."

"I put severed heads in the fridge. Not only severed heads, but eyes, fingers, fingernails, livers, intestines, hearts – I don't think these staples will make me quiver anytime soon." Sherlock rebutted a little quicker than needed, giving John all the information he needed. With a snort, he couldn't help but find irony in that. Maybe being living really did change Sherlock's viewpoints on that. "What?" Sherlock managed out, appearing to be slightly offended.

"I'm guessing a living specimen is a lot different than the dead." John said as he watched his lovers perfectly long fingers wrap the plastic around him, tight enough to keep the water out but loose enough not to cut off any blood flow circulating in that area. That could be difficult what with his wound and everything.

"No." The dark-haired man stated after a moment. "But my John and other people are totally different topics. I don't like seeing you hurt." He had confessed, making John's heart leap once more. Well, this was progress. Ever since he had supposedly died and came back Sherlock had been a lot more romantic – not that he minded before, but now he was slightly more comfortable with their relationship. Not that that was a good thing, though, that Sherlock had changed. That meant that John had put him through a lot.

_Saving those thoughts for later._

"Yeah, well, I think we're even." John smiled at his own comment. "You left me alone for three years, remember."

"You know how to cope better."

"Not when I lost you."

The both of them opted for silence just then, Sherlock simply doing his job with a furrowed eyebrow and John staring up at the ceiling. They were both most likely thinking the same thing: they were extremely sorry for putting their lover through that. In Sherlock's defense, though, they hadn't confessed their love until after the fall. It had put John through a lot and after he realized that his friend was very much alive, he knew he wouldn't pass up on the chance to tell the other how he felt.

He could still remember that day so clear….

The day that changed everything.

"_Is there something you need, John?" Sherlock questioned as he moved around the table from one of his experiments, wiping his hands off with a towel. The man's signature eyebrow raised was placed rightly with question, and John couldn't help but let his lips quirk at the adoring scene. God, the face he had never thought he would see again. With him, in 221B Baker Street, where the two of them belonged. _

_John was extremely nervous. It had been about six days since Sherlock had returned, and five out of those six days he had been debating telling Sherlock his feelings. Now, he knew that telling the sociopath would most likely crush him all over again, but he knew he would have to. After all, what if something happened on the next case, and he wouldn't actually be able to tell Sherlock how much he loved him? God, how much he adored that smile and that laugh and that devilish glint in his eyes while he was in the middle of thinking up a prize scheme. _

_After a long debate with himself the other night, he had already run himself out. John was going to tell his very much alive flatmate that he loved the bloody bastard more than life itself. _

"_John?" The same voice he had fantasized over for years pulled him out of his thought process, sending him blinking back to the real world. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen with Sherlock looming over him not a food away, staring curiously and slightly worriedly into the blonde's startled orbs._

"_A-Ah, oh, I'm sorry." John mumbled as he took a step back, blush reappearing on his face. "I just wanted to, uh…say that…."_

"_Yes?" Sherlock prompted, looking blandly into his flatmate's eyes. John tore his gaze from the other and looked down in shame. _

"_I just wanted to say that you – I…."_

"_What?"_

"…_.Your my best friend." __**What the bloody hell, John. Why did you just say that?**_

_Sherlock's raised eyebrows flew down as he furrowed them curiously, tilting his head to the side. John laughed nervously and turned away, waving his arms around like an idiot because of the embarrassment he had just made of himself. "Ah, sorry, that was weird wasn't it?" He joked it off, taking a few steps in the other direction, away from Sherlock. "Sorry. That came out weird, I mean, I just….Oh, never mind. It's good to see you back in the game. Ha-ha!" John rambled as he shook his head, still inwardly cursing himself. _

_Quickly John made way for the stairs so he could seek refuge in his room and scream into a pillow like a pubescent teen because of his own stupidity – but of course, he always forgot one thing. That Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, Sherlock Holmes. _

"_What were you going to say before you came up with that absurd notion?" Sherlock said from somewhere behind him, most likely the same spot. With his foot on the first step, John turned and smiled weakly, feeling the blush on his face a lot easier than he should have. Oh, he must look like an idiot. _

"_Nothing. I just wanted to say glad your back." __**No, that's not what I wanna say, Sherlock. I bloody love you.**_

"_No, that was more or less a cheap cover that I don't enjoy. I don't like being lied to to my face, John Hamish Watson. I hope you know that." John flinched. Of course he knew that. His hand tightened on the side rail._

"_It's nothing, Sherlock. Please leave it." John shook his head and took a few steps upwards on the steps, before he was once again stopped by Sherlock's voice. _

"_If you don't say what you were going to say now, I don't believe you ever will. And if my deduction skills are still working properly, I feel that if you tell me right now you will be quite surprised with the answers. _

_**Ah, yes. Surprised and disappointed. Thanks, Sherlock.**_

"_No, no, I really don't think so. Deducing something like this isn't something you were ever good at." John teased with a small smile, seeing Sherlock's features twist into annoyance. Yet, it was true. Sherlock had never noticed, so he wasn't too alarmed by the obvious bluff that the other was sporting. _

"_Try me." _

_Two words that John was sure that if they had not been said, they still wouldn't be together. Those words had settled his heart so quickly, like a snap of the fingers, and John realized that he of course had everything to lose, and he was going to risk it all. Stupid but justified. Sort of. A bit. Maybe hopelessly. _

"_I…think I need a drink." John had stated, staring at the stairs almost longingly. From the corner of his eye John saw Sherlock's lips twitch. _

"_You can have one once you tell me." Sherlock had slung the towel he was holding over his shoulder in a classic Sherlock move and took a few steps back, leaning against the table with a toothy grin. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the blonde couldn't help but think how inviting that position was. John took this time to step down from the steps and instead move back through the living room to where Sherlock's chair was, being his faced the opposite direction from where Sherlock was standing. He plopped back down with a huff and a glare. _

"_I need a few drinks in me before I'm able to talk." John inquired quite adamantly, giving Sherlock another reason to raise his eyebrow._

"_A game, then." Sherlock insinuated._

"_A game?"_

"_Yes. You get a swing of brandy every time you answer one of my questions, and if not, you are unable to drink and I will move on to the next one. You won't get to question me, but you will be able to loosen up to talk freely." Sherlock suggested with that sickening smirk of his, and John simply couldn't refuse._

_So there they were, three questions and three swings in, John knowing that Sherlock was getting exceedingly warm with his assumptions. The first question had been if it was something that Sherlock had been involved in often, which he said no, obviously. Sherlock had nodded and proceeded to watch John take a swing. It burned as he swallowed, but it did feel quite good. He was lucky he still had this bottle left – he refrained from drinking as much as he could because of his sister. _

_Though, when revealing something like he was going to, John knew he would have to be drunk. Then he would claim he didn't remember the next morning and they could go about their merry way. Which would not be fun, but John could live through it. _

_The second question was, as he so distinctly put, 'Are you currently questioning your sexuality?' from which John had said 'no.' This trumped Sherlock and John thought it was quite funny, seeing as Sherlock always led himself to believe John was completely straight. That was a complete lie. He just didn't like dealing with men after a while – they got terribly possessive in a bad way, and they were a lot more intimidating. He hadn't had a male partner in over ten years, which was the reason that Sherlock wouldn't know. _

_Glad for his diversion of the question, he took another swing. Sherlock furrowed his brow while he leaned back in John's chair, trying to read the blonde and see what he was trying to say. _

"_Is it something that anyone other than you know?" Had been the third question. _

"_Of course not, no. Only me." John replied. Another swing. Ah, this time he felt a slight buzz. He was getting there. _

"_Only you…." Sherlock drifted, thinking. His hands were clasped together with elbows on the armrest, almost like a sinister villain plotting some sort of sick scene. John fought back rolling his eyes and grinned instead. This could be quite fun. If not utterly terrifying and heart-wrenching, by the by._

_John smiled slightly as he looked away, thinking how amazing it would be if he could just let it out and walk away right now, going outside to relinquish in the cold air and think about what he had just said and where it was cheap enough to move to next. This game was seriously a new form of torture, and to be honest, he had no idea why he was playing it in the first place. _

"_Is there sentiment attached to this situation?"_

"_Plenty." _

_Sherlock nodded off again, staring into space with his fingers locked around each other in a classic thinking position. John thought back to all the times he had seen the other sitting like this, and couldn't help a pang of remorse that soon enough, he wouldn't be able to see it anymore. That was terrible. No, that would be terrible…oh god, should he really go through with this? Would he be able to deal with living on his own again? Going back to…to the nightmares?_

_John's breath caught as he, too, stared off into space. He didn't know if he could do this. He didn't. Obviously he didn't have enough alcohol in his system, either, which that thought also made him slightly more depressed. Acting like his sister, what was this? Hiding behind the alcohol?_

"_Are you –."_

"_No. No, I can't do this." John mumbled through his slightly slurred lips. Setting his bottle on the side table that Sherlock rarely ever uses, he stood wobbly, brow furrowed and head pounding. Man, was he a wussy. Justified, though._

"_John?" Sherlock questioned just as he took a step towards the stairs to drown out his own miseries. _

"_Sorry, Sherlock. I just have to – I can't –."_

"_John, do you love me?"_

_That managed to stop John right in his tracks. His back stiffened and his fists clenched tight, heart leaping at a million miles per second. The silence is deafening, and the blonde can feel Sherlock's gaze on him from a mile away. The brandy is settling in, leaving him in what should be a pleasant buzz, but instead he just wished he was downright hammered. Hell bent on getting his wish, John turned around and stalked back to the table that was next to the chair he was previously sitting in, and grabbed the bottle from its position on the table, taking another swing._

_He didn't dare look at Sherlock. He just couldn't._

_With his back stiff and his heart hammering, John turned away from Sherlock and took another swing, deciding to head back for the stair again. He just wished for one more night in his bed, one more night of sleeping in Sherlock's flat, one more night of pretending everything was okay – obviously, when it wasn't – and then he would be prepared to face the consequences in the morning. _

"_John."_

_John didn't stop this time. His throat was dry, and while as taking another swing while getting up the stairs, he solved that problem quite quickly. _

"_John, listen to me."_

_But he didn't want to hear it. What was Sherlock going to say? He couldn't rule out anything, having it being Sherlock, but whatever it was he could hear it in the morning. _

_Nothing could prepare him from what he heard next, though. _

"_John, John stop. Stop it. Stop drinking and listen to me. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you." Sherlock had growled out, he himself losing patience quite easily. John had stopped walking up the stairs at that moment, and with a little less precision than he would normally have, he dropped the bottle on the stairs. The doctor could feel it slip through his fingers almost in slow motion, but after that he couldn't be bothered with that after he had heard forbidden words falling from the other's lips that he wouldn't dare think of._

_Right then, he had a flashback of when Mycroft told him that Sherlock was incapable of love._

"_He doesn't feel, John. He feels in experiments, in cataloging and hypothesizing, but not once had I ever heard a purely sentimental sentence from him. Not even as a child. He had never said 'I love you' to anyone before, not to their face, not over phone, not over text or thoughts or writings. It just doesn't happen, so I'd advise you to stop these fleeting feelings before you get hurt. Sherlock will not reciprocate them."_

_John's heard had sunken on that day, not because he was told he had no chance with Sherlock, but because Sherlock had never uttered 'I love you' to anyone. The mere thought was terrifying. He remembered thinking again how lonely Sherlock must have been during his years of growing up – but now, now he heard that falling from the man who couldn't even feel in that way._

_Somewhere wherever Mycroft was sitting, watching them through his surveillance cameras or something, John knew that Mycroft's mouth was hanging open. _

_John turned to Sherlock slightly, only to see that Sherlock's stature was stiff, hands clenched at his sides and his head cast down, eyes squeezed shut so tight that he could see each and every wrinkle even from his position on the stairs. Gulping, John stared down at the fallen, broken bottle, and then back at Sherlock. He repeated that action thrice, before pausing all hopes and thoughts with one accusation._

"_Don't experiment on me, Sherlock. It's not nice. I don't want to hear something so –."_

"_So what, John? So fake? So inconceivable from a person like me?" Sherlock stated coldly as he looked back up, a fear in his eyes that John had never seen before. The fear of being rejected. "I suppose it's granted, you thinking that this is an experiment. I have never felt like this truly about someone, John, you have to understand. It just doesn't happen. I don't like being fawned over and I certainly don't like trying to put myself out for someone, but John, I would for you. I love being cared for from you, I love watching you smile and I love when you say something particularly clever and seek for my approval, no one else's. It's not an experiment, John. I love you."_

_John supposed Mycroft has passed out over his chair by now._

_And that night, he had thoroughly snogged Sherlock Holmes out of ever thought and wit he ever had. He knew they wouldn't have sex for a while, but that just didn't matter._

_He finally had Sherlock. _

"John?" John snapped out of his thoughts while hearing said man call for him. The doctor glanced down and saw his lover staring up at him with his brow furrowed in concern. Feeling suddenly warm and happy, John smiled and lifted his hands to wrap themselves in Sherlock's hair. Leaning down, he did what he now had the authority to do – he kissed Sherlock.

It wasn't sexual or even forceful, but a tentative brush of the lips before pulling away. If Sherlock had blinked, he would have missed it. John continued to smile.

"I secretly like being fawned over by you as well, Sherlock." He said as he recalled that moment in Sherlock's speech.

Sherlock looked confused for a number of seconds, and then his mind came around as well. It didn't take Sherlock too long to figure out why he was saying this – he was Sherlock after all. Wistfully, the dark-haired man smiled up at John as well, before proceeding to rip the plastic and arm John into the shower.

They didn't talk after that, but in the silence that they shared, neither Sherlock nor John could be any happier.


End file.
